It’s raining.

Not the heavy kind that drowns, but the annoying kind that tickles and lulls you into a false sense of security, and you’re well into your walk before you realize that you’re slowly being drenched by mist and it’s seeping into your bones. You reach out a hand, feel the trickling bounce off your skin. Heave out a sigh that’s been buried under your ribcage and then deeper.

“I have to get there before the witching hour,” What must be a middle-aged man huffs over the phone beside you once you’ve taken refuge under an awning, his brows creased in annoyance, “Even an old man like me doesn’t want to get caught outside at that time.”

You feel the sudden need to say something, when you’re suddenly and viscerally reminded of the time you’d woken from a dream of rain and an open field and a moon so big and heavy you wonder how it still hung in the sky. One by one, dandelions had lifted into the air, floating around and past you in swirls of ocean-blue light, and you woke up with your heart in your throat, feeling wounded and raw, like you’d just seen something you shouldn’t have.

You’d stepped out of your home that night, the streets so empty it felt like you were the only living soul for miles, your only company the moon and a flickering lamp post. It was the witching hour back then, too, and you half hoped something would happen to you. Nothing had.

You’re shaking so badly, but maybe it’s just on the inside. You’re so used to holding all your pieces together. You’re not sure why it’s so hard all of a sudden.

The old man lifts a jacket over his head and takes off into the streets, facing the ever-growing rain. You stay still under the awning, watching the streets, the coffee shop behind you smelling of pastries with a touch of winter, and you allow all your organs to clobber around in your body for just a second. Just one second.

Then you hear it. A far-off piano.

A car horn blares just as you look around frantically, wildly. Where is the piano? The places playing music are on the Top 40 rotation, and besides those, there are only second-hand clothing stores and bars and tucked away coffee shops. None of them would ever play music like this. Soft and lilting. A haunting lullaby.

You push past the rain and follow the piano into a paved street lined with coffee shops and galleries instead of bars and boutiques. The sound trickles past a side alley, and then another. A cobbled sidewalk dotted with a few blue colored steps, hand-painted, and a road so thin a car couldn’t even fit through, with some far apart and tiny store stoops. They lead to open doors of small glass fronted shops, and the goods range from books to plants to glass jars filled with bubbling liquids. There are no names to the stores, so you don’t know if they’re even stores at all.

You know this is insane. That, logically, you shouldn’t have been able to hear the piano from where you were. That if something isn’t logical, there’s only one real explanation for it.

There’s no one around, but still it feels like there’s a hand on your back that’s pushing you forward, and you’re helpless to do anything but let it.

Then, suddenly, as you step over a wide circle of oddly-placed mushrooms, your world becomes awash with color. Below a canopy of trees, tucked behind this small moment within space and time, tapering into endless evening, is a red bricked building, the stones laced with moss and weeds.

Above, the last of the sunset blazes on the upstairs’ windows, as if the rooms inside had been set on fire. It draws long shadows from the maple tree guarding the front corner of the yard in an overgrown, grassy knoll, an iron gate painted green left open to a cobbled path leading to the front stoop. You look behind you, and it’s the same path as before, separated only by a circle of brightly colored mushrooms. It feels like the you that hadn’t walked through it is another person entirely, like a piece of you has strayed off the path.

For a second, you think of the time you’d spent hours outside, bathed in moonlight, during the witching hour. It felt right. It felt safe.

You look back at the building. It’s in the middle of an oddly-placed patch of forest that looks to stretch well past the bricked walls of the building. Its walls bleed of something living, as if it were beckoning you forward with a wild desperation.

You let yourself think of how insane you are for only a second before walking through the iron gate, creaking open in protest. In that same second, the piano stops in its tracks.

Once you step into the small entry you’re struck with the scent of herbs, an almost smothering amount of sage hanging from the ceiling in dried clumps and bumbles, and beneath it something heavier, more woodsy and dark. The windows are open to let the spring breeze in, petals slipping inside like overeager children.

Your chest is swelling, everything behind your ribcage twisted tight, but you blink blink blink and look down and realize you’re dripping rain all over the sparkly floor. Also that the doormat says “go away” with a grumpy cat next to it. Huh.

You scrape your shoes over it and take a step into the shop, half-thinking you’ll spontaneously combust on the spot, and when you decidedly don’t, you take off towards the shelves. You skim over labels on the jars and pick up something purple and shimmery, turning it over in your hand. It says “Hyssop, consume by mouth,” and when you pick up another one, it has its name scratched off with a shakily written “DO NOT CONSUME.” You feel there’s a story there.

The glass front has a collection of greenery and different flowers of pinks and purples and blues. You recognize a hydrangea growing in a peanut butter jar. To the right, a neat counter with scattered papers sits between some well-loved shelves lined with glass jars of paintbrushes and canisters of pencils and markers and a couple old film cameras.

You think you hear whispers, but every time you turn, there’s no one there at all.

Then, as you’re following the trail of vines crawling over the pastel- blue walls, you hear hasty but lazy footprints above you, as if whoever it is is dragging their feet with the urgency of an old man late for an appointment. You freeze in place. God, what are you doing? What if you’re not supposed to be here at all? What if you really did disturb an old man, and that you’re really just going insane?

You can’t bring yourself to move an inch, and by the time the footsteps reach the bottom floor and you hear a door creak open, you’re doomed.

Beside the counter with the register, a narrow corridor you hadn’t noticed before is suddenly surrounded by misty smoke. The door opens wider, inviting more fog, and a person waves a hand over their face as they cough up a lung, face contorted into disgust.

“Namjoon-ah, I told you, no coming before six,” They cough, “I’m-- fighting my demons in there.”

For a second, you’re too caught up in the person’s voice. Daegu. Daegu, but a little off. A little old. The kind someone’s grandparents would have.

You blink. You remember all of the things you were taught about staring at people, namely that it’s rude, and then you proceed to stare anyway. It is not an old man at all. It’s a boy. There’s a mess of black hair streaked with what looks like cobwebs. He’s wearing slippers and pajama pants and a long shirt twice his size, and when he blinks into awareness, he’s staring at you like you’re not real.

The boy has a presence that takes up the whole room. It’s not dominance or power, but something soft and bright, like the moon through an open window, even in the cold winter. Warm.

You shuffle in place for a bit and make for a hesitant wave, and for only a second, every available inch of the boy’s face shatters into something like wretched devastation. Your hand lowers with a flinch, and it seems to bring him into awareness.

He stands up straight, but makes no move to speak. “Uh,” you start, wringing your hands, “This... Well. I’m-- very sorry for this.” You clear your throat, “It’s just, how do I say this without making it seem as if I’m insane? God, that’s what you think, isn’t it. Of course it is. I am to be stopped, like, immediately.” You shuffle towards the door, “Really, really sorry about this! You will not be seeing me again, I promise!”

Your hand is on the doorknob when you feel a frantic touch on your arm, pulling you back, “No!” He says it as if it were being physically torn from his lungs, having been buried somewhere deep. You flinch back. He pulls away from you as if burnt.

“I-I’m not a thief, I swear!”

“I--know!” He breathes heavy, then takes one slow, deep breath in. He lets it out. The longer you meet his gaze, the more it feels as if you’re dipping under the surface of a lake and can’t break away. “I know.” He says, slower. He collects himself. “Sorry. I was having... troubles.”

You blink. “Troubles.”

He nods.

“You don’t mean the demons, right?”

He blinks, slow. “Demons?”

“The demons!” You gesture towards the open door, still inviting in smoke. “You were fighting demons in there, you said!”

His hand lowers to his side, and he seems to be taking in his surroundings for the first time. “Oh.” A second passes. “You know I’m a witch.”

“HAH! So you admit it! It’s true! You’re,” You let out a breath. “You’re not human.”

“Yes,” The boy says, soft in a knowing that you don’t understand. “Did you think I was?”

Yes, you want to say. Or maybe. Something that sounds at least halfway believable. But the truth is that from the moment you’d first seen him your very first thought was oh. You are not like me. You are not like anything I’ve ever seen before.

You breathe and breathe, then scratch at where he’d touched your arm. It was a light touch, not to hurt-- never to hurt-- But there’s a gentle sort of fire that’s burning somewhere deep under your skin, there. A contained sort of energy repurposed into making a human being feel so bright and warm. A campfire maybe. Or an early morning on a summer day. Something that envelops.

“Real,” you say almost hysterically to yourself. “So... No sacrifices?”

His mouth twitches, amused. “No.”

“And the witching hour?”

“When the moon is just right, it’s the ideal time to make potions.” He rethinks, for a moment. “And jam. It tastes better.”

“And the-- the demons?”

He breathes out a laugh, a soft one. “No demons.” He looks back at the smoke. Shrugs. “Just jam.”

“Oh.”

Your world is a bit wobbly, now. Slightly off-kilter. Not in a bad way, but maybe in a way that lets a little more light in.

The boy suddenly lets in a breath, as if to prep himself for something. Looks back at you. Then, “So. What brings you here?”

“Um.....” You think. “A piano.”

“A customer, then. Though we usually don’t get any humans.” He hums, pleased and somewhat eager, then beckons you towards the shelves. “How can I help you?”

“I...” You linger by the door, but he waves you over to have you walk closer. After a second, you do. “How can you just let me in like this?”

“You’re in the shop,” He points out. Leans against the front desk. “It wouldn’t let just anyone in.”

“And you trust it?”

“It’s a part of me, and I trust myself, so.” He does a series of tiny little nods. “Yeah.”

“So it... led me to you?” You hum. “That’s neat.”

He softens impossibly. A puddle of mush, he is. Soft around all the edges. “It has.” He answers simply. “So how can I help?”

“I don’t know, really. I just followed the pretty music. I guess I’d take some magic jam.”

“Oh. Pretty, huh.” The boy trails a finger over the jars’ labels, skipping over the ones suspiciously written with DO NOT CONSUME. He takes one that simply says strawberry. “Flavor?” He makes a noise. “Actually, no. D’ya want one of each? Yes, you do.”

“I do?”

He places one of every flavor on the counter; strawberry and red plum, apple and rosemary, dandelion and grape jelly. He lines them carefully inside an enviromentally-friendly bag that has little cats on it and says treat nature as you want to be treated!

“Ah.” He mumbles, sucking air through his teeth as he thinks, “And your sleep? How is it going?”

It’s then you realize he pouts when he speaks. His lips are just perpetually puckered. It’s the most endearing thing.

“How’d you know I wasn’t sleeping well?”

Something impossibly soft crosses over his face. It’s gone as soon as you see it. “I’m what people would call a genius.” He says, placing the potion along with the jams, “And you have some wicked eyebags.”

You quickly cover your eyes with your palms, pressing so hard you see stars, and mumble unintelligible curses into them. You don’t know how, but you’re sure he’s smiling.

“I’ve had nightmares for most of my life.” Your hands flop back to your sides. “I don’t think that’s something even magic can solve.”

He hums. “And why not?”

“Some things just seem like they’re.. beyond magic, I guess.” You say. “Not that I know anything about it. It’s nice there’s one thing the government didn’t exploit!”

He chuckles, and it weighs lightly in the air for a second, as if he’d rather taste the words on his tongue before answering. It feels like a trait of his, more than anything.

“Nothing is beyond magic.” For a second, something impossibly bitter seems to cross his expression. An ancient grudge. “Most things.”

He digs out a small glass something out of a drawer. It looks like a perfume bottle, maybe. When he pops the top off, the whole room smells lightly of lavender.

The boy hands it to you. It feels calming, as if it had been laid under the sun. It bubbles like sparkling water.

“And this will help me sleep?”

As you turn your head to look, he’s already watching you. Slowly, his eyes close, as if he were counting each of his breaths.

“No. But something else might.” He presses a finger to your forehead, gentle gentle, right where the worry sits. When he pulls back, nothing changed. And yet everything changed. “When you come back, look for Min Yoongi. I’ll be here.”

When you walk home it’s in the moonlight, hugging a still-warm potion and clinking jars of jam, your stomach in shambles, feeling as if you’ve woken from the deepest slumber.

When you return a week later, the road leads to a dead-end.

You stare at it for a moment, then another. This isn’t right. You followed the exact same route, but here you are, staring into nothing. Something builds up in you, something sharp with gnashing teeth, and you beat a fist against the stone wall. It couldn’t have all been a dream. Not with the potions and jams still sitting on your bedside table.

(Just that morning, you’d squinted blearily at the mid-morning sun shining through your window and came to two realizations. The first is that you slept better than you had in a long time. The second is that you forgot to close your curtains.

Your limbs were too heavy to lift, though, so you lay there for a while, pulling a sheet over your head and ignoring the light, your bones not attached to your muscles. Then, a third realization.

You have been seduced into having a better sleep schedule. And into buying jams.

How absurd.)

A chord is struck, and the familiar green iron gate comes into being. You let out a breath, half relief and half something else, then walk over the mushroom circle all over again. The light is on, a warm orange glow, and just as you’re lingering outside the door, hand half-raised to knock, it tears open with a disheveled Yoongi.

He looks half-mad. “You’re--back?”

“Yeah?” You hastily lower your hand. “What? Am I not supposed to be?”

“No, no,” His eyes, half-lidded with what must be sleep, widen just so. “I mean. Come in, please.” He widens the door invitingly, and you rub your shoes over his silly doormat before stepping inside. The door clicks closed and you hear the swoosh swoosh of Yoongi’s dragging feet over wooden tiles as he walks over.

He stops in the middle of the room, as if lost in his own home. “Did the potion work?”

“It did! The first few days, anyway.”

Yoongi begins walking towards the array of plants by the glass front of the store, grabbing some pruning shears from a nearby shelf. “M’listening.”

“Well, I usually wake up because of my dreams, but I didn’t dream anything the first few days. But after a while they started coming back.” You stare at Yoongi’s back as he crouches to inspect the plant. You don’t know what it is, but it has long stems and seems to be swaying on its own. Yoongi opens and closes the scissors in a little chop chop motion, brows furrowed in thought. “Potion tasted pretty good, too. Like candy.”

Somehow, you’re aware he’s listening even without looking at you. It just feels like he’s that sort of person. The kind that listens well to someone’s words, tucking each one away for safekeeping.

“Hm. I’ll have to change the ingredients, then.” He chops off a piece of the plant’s node, a dead limb, and you almost hear the sigh of relief from it. This feels more like a dream than your dreams ever had, but maybe it’s not a dream at all. Maybe it really is just magic. “Rosemary, apples...” He mumbles with a chop. “Cranberry?”

“Sounds tasty.”

Yoongi chuckles, but it’s more breath than anything, half-air. You wonder what he would look like if he smiled, all teeth, his belly into it. You wonder if there’s something holding him back.

You open your mouth to speak, when suddenly the hallway past the front desk-- where the smoke had been-- is noisy with foot traffic and bustling movement and a passing train, all compressed into one place. A door slams and it’s cut off at once, then a man walks in through Yoongi’s own home with a neon pink scarf rolled up to his nose and heavy snow boots.

You look outside to see if by god the sun gave way to snow. It hasn’t.

You look back at the man, then to Yoongi in question. He clicks his tongue, then simply says, to your complete astonishment, “Joonie, you’re dripping all over my nice floor. I just cleaned that.”

“Sorry,” The man says, “But I got you something!”

The man hands over a plastic cup, steam still rising from its mouth. Yoongi makes a small hum of delight, melting into the floorboards, holding onto his cup with both hands, as if happy with its warmth.

“You’re a lifesaver, Joon-ah.” He sips, then smacks his lips like he’s parsing the taste of aged wine. “Tastes like milkshake.”

The man grins, delighted, and upon seeing your ongoing confusion, simply tips his head with a pleasant smile.

You have many questions. Starting with, “What.”

The man, dubbed Joonie, is now diligently rubbing his boots over the welcome mat in what’s probably more time than necessary, hanging his scarf over the coat hanger, setting his boots by the door. Yoongi is right back to pruning, but offers you a dismissive wave with no explanation.

By the time you’ve all moved into the kitchen to talk, Yoongi’s hands are muddy and his hair is sticking up in odd places. He’s whining something to the man in that almost-whine of his, with pouted lips and the occasional high pitch and slow drawl. They say something, hushed, then both turn to look at you. You stand up straighter.

“Hello,” The stranger says, offering a little wave.

“Hi,” you say with a wave of your own.

There’s a strained second where you’re both just staring. Yoongi, unaware, chews on his straw.

“Hm.” The man, Joon, is still eyeing you. He takes a loud sip of his own drink, “Hyung, who’s this?”

“A regular.” Yoongi grunts. “Be nice.”

“I should be telling you that.”

“I’m nice.” Yoongi frowns.

Namjoon solemnly pats his shoulder. Pat, pat. “You’re nice.”

Yoongi offers another grunt, but there’s no bite to it.

“Hyung hasn’t had regulars in a while,” His chair creaks when he scrapes it backwards to stand, offering you a handshake. “I’m Kim Namjoon.”

You tell him your name, and when you shake hands, his cheeks dimple. Two small craters in both his cheeks. Makes you want to poke them.

“Joon-ah,” Yoongi mumbles, holding tighter to his mug. “We’ll talk later. Sorry for dragging this out.”

“It’s no problem, I’m sure you had your reasons.”

At that, you frown. “I’m sorry, was this a bad time? Should I have... scheduled, or something?”

“S’okay,” Yoongi’s eyes soften, just the tiniest bit. So small you might just have imagined it. “It was on purpose. Joonie could help you.”

You look expectantly, and Namjoon leans against the fridge with a nod. “I could. Or maybe not. Dream witches serve to tell people the meaning of their dreams; a divination, of sorts. Doesn’t stop you from having them, though.”

“Dream witch?” You say. “Woah. That’s cool as fuck.” Namjoon lets out a few embarrassed chuckles, and you’re both surprised to hear a quick, raspy laugh from the stove. You turn, and Yoongi is staring intently at his rice cooker, utterly still.

You are positively beaming. “And you, Yoongi?” You ask, expectantly. “What kinda witch are you?”

He clears his throat. Turns slowly, deliberately. “I’m a kitchen witch. I make potions and whatnot.” Yoongi says, then cocks his head to Namjoon. “Joonie’s a dream-seer. He also dabbles in various other areas. I say dabble, but really I mean he’s fluent in...” He counts on his fingers, “Five? Five languages.”

“Stop it.” Namjoon is a big guy, but now he’s curled in on himself, abashed.

“N’he’s published in many scholarly journals. Basically a genius.”

Namjoon scratches at the back of his head, “He’s exaggerating. Hyung, you’re really cool too, y’know.” He grins. “Cool as fuck, even.”

“Now you’re both turning this on me. I hate you.”

You laugh. Above, a light bulb brightens.

“Namjoon, so you said you interpret dreams? Does that mean every dream has a meaning?”

“Mostly,” Namjoon grows serious, as you feel he does whenever work is brought up. “There are studies, but there can’t be a meaning for every dream in the world. But there are nuances. Patterns.”

“And you study them all? That kinda sucks.”

“I enjoy it,” He says, a tinge of defensiveness in it.

“Hm... Then is there a meaning to not remembering your dreams when you wake up?”

“Depends. It could just mean that your brain doesn’t retain all the dreams you’re having. In your case, since they interrupt your sleep, it could mean your subconscious is trying to protect you from itself.”

“What does that mean?” You frown.

He taps his temple, “It means your mind knows something you don’t.” He shrugs. “Sorry, I really can’t help if you don’t remember anything.” Your back slumps in defeat, and Namjoon sheepishly pats your shoulder. “Don’t worry, kiddo. I’m sure it’ll make sense eventually.”

“Hm.” You sigh, “So, hypothetically, what if I were to dream about a..” You look around. “Curtain?”

“An open curtain means new beginnings. Closed means you’re closing yourself off to new possibilities.”

“A bunch of horses.”

“A longing for freedom.”

“A zucchini.”

He blanks. “Zucchini...”

“Looks like you need to study more, Joon-ah.” Yoongi says from the stove.

“You stop it. A zucchini is a silly thing to dream of!” He says that, but he’s already fishing for his phone, as if to look it up in his defense. Is there a google for witches? A yahoo for witches? That would be sick.

Yoongi joins you both with a teasing half-smile, and he’s been so quiet you would have forgotten he was there, if you weren’t so embarrassingly aware of him all the time. To your surprise, he then offers you a mug, which you take without much thought. You would imagine a witch’s utensils to be refined, all porcelain and fine edges, but the mug is chipped on one end and has a Santa Claus printed onto it. When you take a sip, it’s warm and fuzzy on your tongue, makes you feel floaty.

“Is this a magic tea?”

“Who knows.” Yoongi sends you a secretive tilt of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Something in your ribs flutters all the same.

“Zucchini!” Namjoon bursts into the room, and you realize you hadn’t noticed him leave. Blood rushes to your cheeks at that. “It’s a bad omen. Who would have thought?”

“An evil vegetable.” You add maliciously.

Yoongi frowns. “Zucchini’s a fruit.”

“You’re lying.”

“I swear it.”

“No way.”

“It comes from seeds, so it’s technically a fruit.” Namjoon adds, unhelpfully.

“I hate witches.”

Some time passes. Yoongi asks you about your jams, and after saying there’s plenty left, he decides to give you more anyway, throwing in some more floaty tea and magic bath soap. He tells you he’ll find more ways to help, and asks you to come back. You find that you don’t mind the trek.

As you’re leaving, Yoongi shuffles you back towards the entrance, waving a dismissive hand flap. You turn to wave goodbye to Namjoon and find him already looking, something calculating in his eyes. It’s gone when he catches you looking, and he politely waves you out.

That night, you pop the soap in the tub and watch expectantly. It sizzles for a good few minutes before unfurling into a pile of petals, floating languidly to the top of the bath, the bathwater fading from a pretty pink into seafoam green and smelling of lime and citrus. You sit there so long it goes cold, and when you leave your bones are gooey.

 You don’t have any good reason to visit again for one, almost two weeks. There’s plenty of jam to go around. You still feel tingly from the bathwater. Overall, you’re pretty satisfied.

Until the dreams are back.

You dream of bare walls of warm, white wood, faded and creamy from age. Behind a painting of a sunflower, you’re intimately aware of the fact it’s there to hide a crack of paint. There’s a fireplace on one wall with just a few trinkets lined along the mantle, and you’re not sure if you’re warm from the fire or something else.

There’s a queen-sized bed in one corner, and in the other, a grand piano.

You try to move but your feet are locked in place. Then, as you feel yourself blink, you sink into the floorboards like water.

You wake with a gasp and stumble out of bed. You hurry to grab your phone, but when you go to write the dream, it’s already slipped away.

 You never would have thought you’d be glad to have recurring dreams, but here you are.

“Yoongi!” You grin. “Hi!”

“Hello,” he says in his slow Daegu drawl, hurriedly waving you inside.

“What is it? Is there a special occasion?”

”Something like that. C’mere,” he says, beckoning you deeper inside, his expression feigning disinterest but something eager hidden in his tone. “I think you’ll like this.”

So he says, but there’s a fierce sort of surety in his tone that he can’t seem to hide.

You follow through where the smoke had been the first day, then past three sets of corridors until, at the very end of one layered with paintings and candles and creaky floorboards, sits a wide set of double doors. Yoongi looks back at you only once before pushing them open, and--

The outside is a small, humble shop, but the inside; it is far bigger than it logically should be. This goes beyond magic, you think wildly. It is something otherworldly.

It all seems to belong to a victorian cathedral, a long-ago world; On the walls are a collection of stained glass windows that color the inside a reflection of yellows and blues, inviting light to the two-story library painted directly from a childhood fairytale. There are high beamed ceilings with murals hand-painted an abstract wash of blues and greys. The scene looks like fog shrouded mountains. Or the outside of an open window. Or ocean waves crashing into each other.

“Oh,” is all you manage, awe tearing your throat raw.

You turn to Yoongi, maybe to share the wonderment, maybe for something else, but when your eyes meet, his are all still and fond and devastated. Something in his face slips, like a mask melting away, and a part of you likes the wide-eyed wonderment you find left behind. When you first met Yoongi, he didn’t seem human. Too polished. A little hungry. But this look is tender and welcoming and makes something small and bewildered start behind your ribs.

You’re suddenly all too aware of how you’re standing here, surrounded by magic and books and this beautiful boy, and that something is missing. It must be. It’s a feeling you’re used to, but it’s new all the same. A different something. A weird sort of empty, and a weird sort of full.

The illusion shatters as he blink blink blinks and hastily looks down to his slippers. Bunny slippers, you realize. “So you like it, then.”

“Who in their right mind wouldn’t like this?” You gesture wildly towards, well. Everything.

His mouth twitches, as if he were fighting back a smile. “You would be surprised.” Then he straightens, clears his throat, and starts towards a hallway of shelves. You blink into awareness and hastily follow.

“These books are a pain, actually,” He stops to pull one out, shuffles through its pages, and places it back. He continues walking, “I’m the only one who ever knows where everything is. They always switch places by themselves.” A huff. “Namjoonie hates it. Especially since he can’t seem to return books on time.”

You make an inquisitive sound. “What happens then?”

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Depends. Sometimes, the books return by themselves. Other times he gets smacked by them.” He lets out a smug little heh. “S’funny.”

As you walk, you brush a finger over the spine titles; leather and paper and buckram and, sometimes, wood. At your touch, the whole building seems to breathe out a long-winded sigh.

“And how do you know where all the books are?” You hum. “Is it ‘cause you’re, like, the owner with supreme power?”

In a second, his hands burst with ocean-blue light, bristling like fire. Books from the higher shelves float neatly down to eye-level, and many of them circle around Yoongi as he looks over them without touching them even once. One of them says How to deal with a Goblin invasion; and another, Flowers: is it edible? And another just has a giant eye in its center. You swear it blinks once before being stowed back into place.

He hums, “No, not quite,” He says without looking back, “Rather, it’s because I am the owner with supreme power that they trust me.”

“Um.” You blink. “The books?”

“Yes. The books.”

“Oh.” You look back at the shelves. Pat one of the books, politely.

Yoongi’s magic places all the books back, and he turns back to you. You straighten, and he raises a brow. “I have some work to do. You can... hang around, I guess.”

“Oh!” You grin, “I will!” Your enthusiastic shout echoes throughout the corridor, and you shrink into yourself for a second. Yoongi is patient as you clear your throat and say, lower, “I.. will. Thank you, mister Min Yoongi-ssi, sir.”

He lets out a small, breathy laugh. “Alright. You do that.”

He doesn’t ask about the dreams, so you don’t get the chance to explain that they’re growing softer. Less like a nightmare and more like a familiar, far-off memory. You’re simply left to look at his retreating back.

Formal wear does not coexist well with bunny slippers, but you think that maybe it does with Min Yoongi. Some of the books rattle in their leather-bound tombs, as if they were agreeing.

 You’re lost.

It’s a pain to admit it, but you’d like to think it’s not entirely your fault. Amidst your walk through open spaces and yellowed portraits and ladders too high for your liking, everything started to seemingly blend together.

At one point, you’d resigned yourself to your fate and sat on a long reading table, only to hear shuffling by your feet. When you look, it’s booklice, grown out into the size of rats, fed on magic or words or something else.

(You hope your yelp of terror and your undignified fall backward shooed them away for good.)

You don’t sit down again.

You’re half tempted to call out to Yoongi, but he did say he was busy, and you can probably find your way back on your own. Maybe. You hope.

As you walk, you pass by distant rustling pages and are accompanied by the pitter patter of rain, tapping lightly against the stained glass windows. There’s the far-off clicking of a typewriter that never seems to get close, only farther. At one point you pass by a simmering hearth, and you think you should be worried, but you somehow trust it not to burn anything down.

There’s something dreadfully vulnerable at being allowed to wander like this, you think. A show of trust, or maybe something more. A peek into Yoongi’s soul.

You flip through books on your way, and when your gaze drifts over the spine titles, a candle flickers to life and floats above you, just out of reach. Enamored, you look through the shelving unit and find things like Comparative Mythology and Voodoo, A Century of Herbs and Root Magic; then, a dictionary for plants. You go straight to sage, the most consistent herb used in the shop, and discover that it’s used for self-purification. That it promotes healing and wisdom and rids of negative energy. That it’s meant to help with grief and loss.

Grief and loss. The shop smelled of death before you ever even got here.

You slot the book where you’d found it, finger brushing over the others, when you stumble across one that’s worn and well-read and yellowed from age. A Century of Forbidden Spells, you read, about to flip through when something heavy sounds behind you, like cobblestone being dragged over concrete. You drop the book with a flinch and whip around.

A door opens up behind you, the wooden floor making way to stone. It’s a long corridor, dark if not for the torches lining the walls.

You don’t want to go. But something is beckoning you closer. Something a little beyond curiosity.

“No,” You say resolutely to yourself. “I won’t. Yoongi trusted me not to.”

You’re about to pick the book up, and realize it’s opened to a well-worn page. As if whoever’s read it had dwelled on it for too long.

“Dark magic?” You read. “Why would Yoongi...”

It could be a misunderstanding. After all, you doubt all the thousands of books in the library had all originally been Yoongi’s; maybe this one had belonged to someone else.

But. But. The shop is a gateway to Yoongi’s own being. Why would he have a passageway like this?

“No no, I can’t,” You place the book back where it’s been, and hear the groaning of the walls as it begins closing. You take a deep breath. Then two. Your hands close into fists.

Just as there’s a sliver of space left, you slip inside, holding your breath as you just barely pass through, your chest scraping the closing wall. The torches light up as you approach them, and you look back only once. The door is firmly shut.

You’ll figure a way out later. For now, you take another deep breath, holding it in for too long, and trek through the hallway.

You walk for what feels like a long time. Then, a light appears, and the gloomy hall opens up into lush forest.

Leaves crunch underfoot as you step into dense greenery. Cicadas buzz and trees reach into the skies, morning dew still trickling down branches. You think that, if you were to breathe deep, it almost feels like there’s something real underfoot. Something alive.

You’ve been in the forest for maybe five minutes, and you don’t know if you like it or not. The city was noisy with foot traffic and people and cars, and the forest is noisy with the sound of trees growing and birds calling and little things chitter-chattering as they leap through the undergrowth, and the difference is startling.

Your heels squelch onto spongy moss when you come across a glade of daisies. The trees surrounding it are droopy, their leaves brown at the edges, but that’s not what makes your breath catch. A patch of sunlight shines through the foliage, and in its center, lies a person.

Their hands are clasped lightly over their chest, eyes peacefully closed. They’re surrounded by a patch of thorns that seem to consciously grow around them, never over them. The dandelions underfoot seem to grow over each other the closer they are to them, and over the person’s hands and eyes and legs are patches of moss that makes their features indistinguishable.

No; they’re not a person anymore, not with how rotten they are.

Except they’re not rotten. As if the forest is not letting them be.

The reality of it all is beginning to weigh you down. And suddenly magic is not all that it appears to be.

“You are not supposed to be here,” You gasp as Yoongi growls, dragging you back by your wrist. For a second you think you’re shaking, but in the next you realize it’s the forest. As if the foundation of what was holding everything up is breaking apart.

Your heart is trying to climb its way up your throat, and it doesn’t seem to care if it chokes you on its way out.

You look back only once, but only see a nature-made casket of roses and thorns, pillowed by overgrown moss.

 (“Please,” He pleads. He’d lead you to the entrance of the shop, looking both eager and unwilling to let you go. “It.. It wasn’t me. God. It wasn’t.”

You don’t answer him, don’t know how. You’re hyper aware of your tongue resting uncomfortably in your mouth. Hands. You should do something with your hands. You should say something, anything, but what? What do you say after seeing something like that?

“How long?”

”What?”

”How long has it been there?”

He doesn’t answer for a long, long time. Then, under his breath, raspy and low and so terribly sad that you wonder who it could have been that’s left him like this.

”Longer than you’ll ever know.”

You let out a breath.

He’s suddenly bending over, his body hunched as if he were absorbing the force of a physical blow. He looks so small and torn open, as if he’s too scraped raw to come up with excuses for it. Not quite close to breaking, but it is a near thing.

Ah. Yoongi’s reluctance to let go must be what is keeping the body here, you think.

You’re filled with an ache so sudden and gut wrenching. You were so close to loving him. But it is salted earth. Nothing can bloom.

There is nothing for you to say, so you say nothing at all.

That night, you forget to use your pretty bathwater and don’t eat any of the leftover jam --left to sit by a window to bathe under a half-moon, as instructed on the packaging--, but when you sleep that night, it’s dreamless. As if they’re being eaten up by leftover magic.)

A month passes. It seems as if, ever since you realized you’d fallen in love, you never had dreams again. The worst part is that you don’t know if you have what it takes to walk inside the shop and make up excuses, so you simply-- don’t.

Except you don’t have to.

When you open your eyes after having gone to sleep that night, you wake up on a cloud, an endless expanse of it. It feels as if you’re laying on pillows. When you look up, Yoongi is looking at you, something unbelievably soft in his eyes.

He offers a hand to pull you up. You take it, and he doesn’t let go, just begins walking with your hands locked together.

All the surroundings look the same, but it seems as if he knows where he’s going. Then, he stops, and the sky, which had been all blurry and wrong, opens up into a mix of pinks and oranges and purples. Almost like a sunset, but something a bit more otherworldly than that.

“Do you know what being a witch means?”

You shake your head.

“It means I’m born with a sense of duty and responsibility already placed on me. I love what I do, but sometimes I wonder what I would have done if I had ever been given a choice.”

You stand there holding hands with him, watching the colors blur together for a bit. There’s a brief moment where Yoongi’s thumb slides over your knuckles and you feel some sort of magic, or maybe some sort of moment, taking your mind and whisking it away.

“Doesn’t it ever get lonely?”

“Hm. Yeah. It does.”

Then you wake up, your hand still warm, and you’re not sure if the sadness you’re feeling is your own or someone else’s.

 You walk inside the next day. You slam open the door and Yoongi is already standing there, expectant and waiting.

It’s silent for a moment too long. Then, “D’ya wanna help me make soup?”

“Oh.” You nod nod nod. “Yeah.”

So you help him make soup, which basically consists in the biggest demonstration of athleticism you’ve ever had to do. Yoongi stands there in his jeans that are more hole than denim and mixes his wooden spoon in the biggest pot you’ve ever seen. He’s standing over a ladder and everything. When he asks for sesame seeds, you’re racing around the kitchen looking through all his jars, and he just kinda stands there to stare and laugh and be generally unheplful because he’s mean like that.

“Peel the potatoes,” Yoongi hands you a colander with three thick potatoes inside, “This soup is gonna blow your mind. Be the best soup ever.”

“What’re you gonna do if it isn’t?”

He thinks for a second, lips pouted. “You can hit me.”

“Okay!”

He breathes a chuckle at your enthusiasm.

You peel the potatoes and Yoongi cuts them into neat little cubes before tossing them into the pot. “The birds will eat the peelings,” Yoongi says. “And they’ll be your friends.”

So you venture out to an open window and place them by the windowsill, and a cheerful little bunch of finches are already landing onto it. A blue one, wrapped in potato peel, flutters its feathers at you.

“Don’t mind them, they’re awfully arrogant.” Another finch, yellow this time, says. “Can I have one? Oh, you’re very kind!”

“Oh, and you’re not, I suppose!” The blue finch huffs. “Just be glad the owls aren’t here. The other day I heard one say about Yoongi--”

”Don’t reveal his secrets!” The yellow finch puffs out its chest. “And you, human? What do you think of him?”

You think for a while, setting the peelings in neat bundles. “I guess you could say I think of him often.” You grin. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

They both huff, settling themselves over their share of potato peelings. They don’t say anything after that, but when you leave, you’re sure you hear hushed, high-pitched whispers.

When you walk back, you peek curiously over the pot. It’s starting to glow golden brown, and you’re not sure if it’s the potatoes or magic or the extra cinnamon stick. If there was any doubt before that magic was all a dissociative dream of yours, it’s gone now. This is absolute magic. You wonder if the shop works with him if he ever burns anything, or if maybe it just protects itself. Must be hard to call the fire department for an invisible building.

”Hope they weren’t too much trouble,” He says, fond. “Chatters, they are.”

”They seem to like you a lot. The whole forest does, honestly.” You grin. He turns red.

Without looking away from his pot, Yoongi holds out his hand expectantly. Half-confused, half-delighted, you hold it.

“Aish, not that,” He shakes off your hand, reaching over you to grab more sesame seeds.

You are in shock. Flabbergasted. Stupefied. You’re about to object, eyebrows up to your hairline, when you catch his shoulders shaking.

“Are you laughing right now?”

“No.”

“You’re laughing right now.”

“M’not.”

When you look twice, Yoongi is wearing an impossibly soft smile, his whole body melting with it. Your grin settles into a fond thing, and the tenderness-- it must be showing on your face. It must be.

Unfortunately, you never get the chance to hit him, because the soup is the best soup ever. You’re disappointed as you bring spoonfuls of it to your mouth. Yoongi decides to hit you instead, a light little slap to the shoulder, but you’re offended anyway.

“You’re so mean,” You say through spoonfuls. “Mean and soft.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re mean. And soft.”

“Huh.”

Setting down your spoon with a sigh, you stare him straight in the eyes. "You're.. A marshmallow. Kinda burnt and icky on the outside, but like, gooey and soft on the inside."

Yoongi, with as much sincerity as he can place into three syllables, says, "What the hell?" His brows furrow, "So you're saying soup killed my street cred?”

“You never had any to begin with!”

“This is preposterous.”

Warm with soup and something else, you accompany him to water the plants by the storefront, your heart in knots, fiddling with your fingers. He hasn’t asked about the dreams in a while. Almost as if he knows they’re gone, that you don’t need to be here anymore.

You’re not sure if he’s just being nice or if he genuinely likes your company, and the thought that your whole relationship is built on politeness makes something terrible fill your ribcage.

“Um... Yoongi?” You say, and he looks up with a hum. “I think I need to tell you something.”

You breathe and breathe, steeling yourself. You’d been prepared for this ever since you walked in, but you hadn’t expected the warm smiles and soup and laughter and finches.

“Oh.” He stands up, dusts off his pants, and doesn’t quite look at you. He looks around your edges, as if he’s afraid of facing you. “It’s okay. I know.”

“You do?”

“Uhum.” He looks terribly sad. This isn’t what you want. He’s not supposed to look sad when you confess to him. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I don’t?”

“I’m sorry for always making up reasons for you to stay. If you want, I can give you enough jam to last you a year--”

“What?”

“What?”

You hear far away chirps of anguish.

“You’re scared of me, aren’t you?” He sounds unnervingly calm, like he’d rehearsed this. “That’s okay. I said I’d let you go. Which bath bombs are your favorites?”

“Yoongi, no. I don’t want to leave. In fact, I get upset every time I have to leave! And I love the library and the talking animals and your pretty kitchen and you!” You shut your mouth as soon as you’d said it. “I mean--”

His hands frantically reach for your own, and when you look, there’s a terrible tenderness to him, an inhuman relief. “You do?” He laughs, and it sounds wet. “You really do?”

And you don’t know how to tell him, what loving him does to you. How it aligns every misaligned, sharp-cornered thing inside you. How it makes sense; fits into you like nothing else ever has.

You don’t trust your mouth not to spout something stupid, so you nod furiously instead.

He laughs, half joy and half disbelief and half something else. “God,” he lets in a shaky breath. “You really do?”

You nod again, so violently you get dizzy.

Then, so, so softly, hands cup your cheeks and you’re squeezing your eyes shut and there’s a damp sort of giggle, and your lips meet.

Yoongi doesn’t sigh, but it’s a near thing. Like an ancient thing has finally settled into place.

He’s so soft in your arms. It shouldn't be a shock; it's not as if he dresses himself in stiff angles and hard points. But he's just always so —solid. Implacable. It's strange to know him now as such a warm, pliant thing.

Your breaths mingle together, your thumb brushing over the under of his eyes, and Yoongi puts a lot of effort, melted as he is, into linking your hands together, touch feather-light. You kiss him again because you like how it makes him smile, and then he does and you’re forced to push down the bubbling laughter in your throat.

“Ah, Yoongs. Did you know I like you so much?” You whisper, because your heart is too big to carry on your own. Because it’s nearly impossible to get close without saying it, without letting the words spill.

When he looks up, he’s so, so fond, wide eyes and all. It makes you want to crack and lay it all down at his feet, let him know you’re just whittled down bones.

The world lets itself breathe for a moment. Then, he lets out a sigh, like he’s breathing along with it. “I missed you,” The sigh Yoongi lets out is shaky. He plops his head back on your shoulder, resigned. “So much.”

“Silly boy,” You hum, softly giddy. “I was only gone for a month.”

It’s quiet for a long time. Then, when you think he won’t answer at all, a low: “Yeah. You were, weren’t you?”

One day, when the light hits the ceiling just right, you will find the spot where time is the weakest. You will touch it, tear it apart, and wake up again in this moment, this bridge between time.

There's a moment of stilled silence where you feel the world pause and then align, as though to wait for you, for this moment, and he stares almost reverently over your features until a smile spreads and the world continues the turning of its gears. And suddenly you’re aware of how delicate, how fragile it all is.

Yoongi begins to sway you over and over, humming a soft tune that you don’t realize until much, much later, is the same melody as the piano song that led you here.

(Once, there was a witch kneeling in the dirt, barefeet trodden with mud, in the middle of the windswept moors. Overhead, a mackerel sky with hints of rain. In his arms, a corpse.

Callouses cover his palms, bruises on his knuckles, and he can barely hear past the heavy breaths he’s taking, the wind howling in his ears.

For a moment, the entire sky, pitch-black, crackles an ocean-blue of his magic. The witch checks; the body is still unmoving. Blue again; He checks, half expecting it to sit up and tell him he’s being silly, that this is all just a dream. Nothing.

Again. Again. Again.

By the end, the witch is hacking up blood, a wretched agony through his lungs and bones, air giving way to fire. Red is in his hands, his hair, his vision. He can’t see anything past it. He’s unsure if he wants to.

He’s trembling, has been for a while, and he doesn’t know when it started or when it will end and oh god, will it ever end?

The world continues to move. It is cold and unforgiving and, distantly, the witch wonders why it gives only to take. Why it bothered to give at all. Why he’s still here. Why he’s still breathing. Why he’s still alive.

Soon, the body will decay. Soon, the only thing left will be rot, and it will be no different from any other bundle of bones in this world, and the witch will have to live with the fact that the only thing left of him will be all the leftover love with nowhere to go. That with this death, everything soft and beautiful and bright would be buried along with it.

The witch sits there for a long, long time. Then, when his body can no longer hold itself upward, he lies himself delicately on the ground, grass tickling his cheek, and lies there for even longer. It wouldn’t be too bad to die here, too, he thinks. Right there in the woods, so early the sky is dark and there’s no frost, only dew. There, where he can almost pretend there isn’t nothing else inside of him but the slow and ghastly beat of his heart. More grief than he is a person.

Except he doesn’t. Die, that is. Not for a long, long time.

Warn him about what?

I grabbed the knob and twisted it with a weak grip, throwing the door open and moving to rush out. But I stopped—and nearly screamed when I came face to face with Yoongi, only it wasn’t Yoongi, it couldn’t have been Yoongi.

Yoongi didn’t have blood seeping from his eyes, nose and mouth like that, dripping audibly onto the floor as he hunched over, nearly stumbling through the doorway of my bedroom.

Yoongi’s skin wasn’t that shade of grayish-blue like he had been dead for days. But overall—Yoongi’s eyes didn’t hold pure fear, the same fear I could feel in the air, the fear that was coming from him.

Blood splattering onto my skin as he uttered ‘no’ and ‘please’ in a voice too weak to have been his own, but he wasn’t begging me, he was begging someone else—something else—I could feel its presence.

And that’s when I saw another figure emerge from the shadows of the hallway, reaching out to claim Yoongi. And I did scream.

And then I woke up, again, this time in broad day light. The sun burned my eyes as I frantically looked around, squinting through the haze of tears and light—everything looked normal, everything felt normal.  

The sound of my door being thrown open made me jump and shriek again—only this time it didn’t make it past my lips, the scream was smothered by a choked sob that caught in my throat when I saw who was standing there.

Yoongi stood in the doorway, his eyes wide but alert and full of fire. “What’s wrong?” his voice held concern and his chest heaved—he had just run up the steps no doubt—he glanced around my room as I scrambled to get out of bed, rushing towards him.

His skin was slightly cold to the touch and the pink tint to the tip of his nose told me he had been outside. I clung to him like my life depended on it, anything I said—or tired to say—came out a jumbled, incoherent mess; I was sobbing too hard to talk, to breathe, I felt like I might pass out.

And for the second time, I saw fear in his eyes—masked—but it was there.

A half an hour later and I was sitting at the kitchen table—my entire body trembling, my core muscles spasming from how hard I had been crying. I wasn’t crying now, I was spaced out, staring at the steaming cup of tea Yoongi made for me, my mind replaying that image and those feelings over and over again. It was mind numbing to see Yoongi in such a state, I was almost unable to process it.

It wasn’t just a dream, it was too real. Something is coming.

“Y/N…” Yoongi spoke softly from the seat next to me, his chair turned to face mine. He reached out to take my hand in both of his, his thumbs soothingly rubbing over my skin. “Can you talk?” he asked, humming when I didn’t answer him. “Are you able to tell me what happened?” he tried to mask the impatient tone in his voice, but he was failing.

“Look and see.” I said, giving him permission to get inside of my head. He hesitated, almost like he didn’t want to know—I didn’t blame him, I could tell he was growing uneasy from my behavior.

His palm spread across the side of my head and I closed my eyes, preparing myself. I felt the mind-numbing chill spread throughout my head, starting at my temples.  I relived the dream, this time with Yoongi, and I squirmed in my seat, the feeling of dread weighing in the pit of my stomach.

Once Yoongi dropped his hand from my head I looked over at him, and my stomach dropped—he didn’t look the least bit concerned. “A-Aren’t you worried? Somethings wrong.” I was almost mad that he didn’t look concerned.

“We don’t know if your dream holds any truth, it could just be a dream…” he sighed. “But I’ll call Jimin, get him to interpret it, he’ll tell us if we should be worried or not.” He looked at me, his gaze softening, “I don’t plan on dying, especially now that I have to babysit you all the time.” He offered a small smile as he stood, vanishing beyond the doorway.

An hour or so later the front door swung open and several sets of footsteps echoed down the hall along with hushed voices, Yoongi turned to from his spot at the counter to face the doorway.

The first person to walk through the kitchen doorway was a noticeably tired Hoseok, he greeted Yoongi with a nod.  He looked over at me and gave me a lazy half smile, “Hey, you.” I gave a soft smile in return.

“Sleep well?” He teased, approaching me and ruffling my hair—Yoongi shot him a look, so he pursed his lips and sat down in the chair next to mine. The next person to walk through the doorway was Jimin, who didn’t bother to acknowledge Yoongi, instead he rushed over to me, squatting down next to my chair to speak to me. “Oh gosh, Y/N, you look exhausted.” His hands on mine were warm and comforting; with him in the room I got the urge to cry again, I knew he understood, I knew he could feel what I was going through. Occasionally that psychic connection came in good use. He stood and hugged my head to his stomach, smoothing my hair down, I could feel him trying to urge his was into my mind, but I wouldn’t allow it—not yet.

A deeper and more commanding voice spoke next, one that ran chills down my spine and sent a small jolt of excitement through my stomach. “So…explain why we’re all here?” Tae asked.

“There was an…incident, involving a dream—” “You say that like it’s nothing—” “I did not—“ “A majority of psychics have premonitions in the form of dreams, that’s how our powers usually manifest first, you know that and you’re treating this like it’s nothing.” Jimin snapped, his voice was both amplified and muffled as I listened to him speak with my head against his stomach, frankly, it wasn’t doing anything to help the dull ache behind my eyes.

“And I know that things can be altered by course of action, so even if the dream was a sneak peak at my death—there can be ways to avoid it and change the outcome.” Yoongi snapped back.

“Yo, wait, who said anything about you dying?” Hoseok spoke, confusion lacing his voice.

There was silence, the clock ticking on the wall seemed to echo, taunting us all while Yoongi delayed his answer.

I pulled away from Jimin to speak, since Yoongi obviously wasn’t going to. “I had a dream, Yoongi was dying, someone—something else was here, in the house.” “Did you see it?” Tae asked, moving to sit at the head of the table. “No, but there’s no doubt in my mind that Yoongi knows what it was.” I cast a bitter glance at him, “That’s why he’s convinced he can avoid it, he knows the dream wasn’t just bullshit but he doesn’t want to admit it.” I could see Yoongi grit his teeth as he closed his eyes, fighting back a bitter remark.

“Y/N, how was Yoongi dying in your dream?” Hoseok asked, swiveling in his seat to face me, eyebrows furrowed—a sudden fire, a sudden bitterness burned in his eyes, it was almost alarming to see him out of character. “He was bleeding from his eyes and shit, wasn’t he?” I gaped back at him, “Yeah…just like that.”

Hoseok gave me a petty smile before turning to Yoongi, “When was the last time you checked—” “Shut up—” “Obviously it—” “I said—” Yoongi stepped forward like he was ready to fight Hoseok into silence.

“GUYS!” Tae slammed his hand down on the table silencing Yoongi and Hoseok’s bickering, causing everyone to jump in the process.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he did so, “Let’s not fight…we need to be calm about this, this isn’t something we should waste time bickering over.” “Calm, Calm?” Hoseok shouted as he stood up abruptly, his chair nearly tipping over backwards.

“Y/N, you wanna know what you saw?” Hoseok turned to me. “Don’t you da—” “The thing in the basement—that we’re all afraid of—got out, that’s what you saw.” Everyone went stiff, the air seemed to freeze over, and the chill seeped into every inch of my skin reaching my bones in a way that made my body ache. A paralyzing fear wrapped fingers around my throat and my mind blanked, unwilling to process the words he just spoke.  

“The…what…” I breathed, I had forgotten about the thing in the basement. “Yeah, that, and it’s coming back.” Hoseok sat back down in his chair—though it wasn’t anywhere near the table anymore, he crossed his arms and stared down at his outstretched legs, isolating himself in petty anger.  

“When did that happen?” Tae spoke, snapping everyone’s attention back to the present.

“This morning.” Yoongi spoke, his gaze fixated on the floor. I saw Hoseok squirm in his chair and then draw his legs in to sit up straight from the corner of my eye. “When this morning?” Tae asked, his eyes finding mine. “Minutes before she woke up screaming.”

“You can’t avoid us…” Hoseok spoke, his voice was low and monotone, almost…feminine? “For we are many…” Everyone went wide eyed and turned to look at Hoseok.

His head hung, seemingly staring down at his lap; his hands had a vice grip on the arms of his chair, knuckles white and veins raised. “Pop culture or scripture? Either way they are the words of man, foolish and stupid.” When he picked his head up his eyes were pitch black, “You are foolish and stupid, Yoongi, I tried to warn you.” A grin that belonged to someone else stretched across Hoseok’s lips. A chill snapped down my spine like the crack of a whip, I wanted to bolt out of my seat—out of the house—it looked…wrong on his face.

“But you shut me out, for years.” “How dare you-” Yoongi breathed, his chest expelling the words along with all of the air in his lungs.

“I was never your enemy, Yoongi. I was only what you made me…but I made you—and this is how you repaid me? Locking me away…”

“Rathshiva…” I spoke, her name slipping off my tongue before I could stop it. “Yes, child.” Hoseok, no, Rathshiva turned to look at me.

“Our little witch has been collecting demons to harvest their power, right under our noses—sentenced me to limbo, destroyed my body so I couldn’t come back and stop him.” She looked back at Yoongi, “How do you feel now that your little secret is out?” There was a snarl to Her words, but the way His lip curled, it almost looked smug.

“I wasn’t harvesting their power I was c-collecting them…to stop them.” Yoongi got defensive. “And using their power in the process?” “It was necessary to protect myself—don’t forget you’re the one creating them in the first place.” He clenched his fists at his sides, but he didn’t dare move.  

Rathshiva fake gasped and with a tsk of her tongue she spoke, “No, Child, I wasn’t creating demons, I was creating witches—witches who couldn’t handle the power and became demons—you’ll end up on the same path if you’re not careful.”

“You kept making them after things went wrong, you knew what you were doing.” Yoongi spoke, his voice dropping quieter each time he opened his mouth, like he knew arguing was effortless. He has been caught.

Jimin and I were frozen in our places, both of us radiating anxious fear. Tae, on the other hand, seemed unphased and unsurprised.  

“NO!” Rathshiva boomed, flashing across the room—she moved like Tae in Hoseok’s body—fast as a blur; everyone flinched and jerked in response to Her outburst. Yoongi pressed his body back against the counter, leaning as far away from Her as he could without moving from his spot.

“No, I can’t make them right from over here, I kept making them because I was trying to find a body to use, a body that could handle the magic, so it could handle me. I’ve been trying to come back—I was willing to clean up my mess, but you denied me.” Yoongi was trembling. His face and lips were pale, and his eyes were blown out and frantic—searching every inch of Hoseok’s face like he couldn’t believe he was seeing this. The energy he was putting out was making me sick to my stomach, I could feel the air itself trembling; I could feel the shock, the realization that everything he had just crumbled before his very eyes.

“You denied me, because you got greedy—blaming me for years when you are the one causing your own downfall.” She took a step back, sucking in a breath to compose herself. “The only thing I’ve been meddling with was your little psychic friend so that I had a connection to your world, I needed a way to watch you…I have no real power in the place you put me, that’s why you put me there—remember?”

Yoongi blinked, staring at Her, frozen in his spot. I saw the way his throat contracted, and the way his chest concaved in and his body bowed forward as more air was forced from his lungs—he looked like he was about to throw up, his entire body wracked with the blow of the situation.

“Bring me my body and let me out, maybe I’ll consider cleaning up your mess and saving your life in the process—until then, I’m keeping this one while I have it, while it can handle me.” Rathshiva rolled Hoseok’s neck and crossed his arms.

She wasn’t asking, she was demanding.

Yoongi glanced around the room, I stared back, shocked at what I was hearing. “There’s no way…” Jimin breathed, speaking what was also on my mind. “Oh, there is, Child. The vampire knows because he’s been around the longest, I was never the enemy.” Rathshiva turned and walked around the table, running Hoseok’s hand across Tae’s back as she passed before sitting back down in the seat next to mine.

“Make your choice, Yoongi, it’s time to face the facts. You’ve been denying the truth even from yourself, it seems as though you’ve started to believe it.”

Yoongi locked eyes with Her, it almost seemed like his mind was shutting down and he was self-destructing mentally. The way his eyes shook in their sockets as he stared at her, his knuckles were white from his fists being balled in the material of his jeans at the sides of his thighs; sweat was shining on his neck and face. He was in shock.  

He sucked in a deep breath and glanced around at us all before he bolted across the room and down the hall, I could hear how he stumbled into the furniture lining the hallway.

The front door opened and closed with a loud ‘clunk’ and there was silence in the room for a moment too long, silence that was laced with overwhelming adrenaline and terror—which wrapped around my throat and ran a chill throughout my body.

Judging by the way Jimin was pale and spaced out, staring at where Yoongi previous stood—he was feeling the effects too, though he looked close to puking.

“If he’s smart, he’ll return with my body.” Rathshiva spoke, scooting the chair closer to the table and folding Hoseok’s hands neatly on the surface. “I believe he will, he knows he’s in too deep, I’ve been telling him for years and I think he’s finally getting it.” Tae ran a hand over his face and then up through his hair, sighing.

“Wait…” Jimin whispered, snapping his attention to Tae. “You guys…you’re—you,” He sputtered on his words. “Take a seat, I’ll tell you the story…” Rathshiva spoke, Tae nodded when Jimin looked from Hoseok to him. “You’re taking her side? What are you guys...Friends?” Jimin spoke, breathless, once he sat down.

“More like…Taehyung is my level-headed…acquaintance.” Rathshiva spoke inclining Hoseo—or Her head now, lacing His fingers under His chin.

“You trust my judgement, don’t you?” Tae spoke up as he eyed Jimin—who looked like he was between throwing up and crying—the anxiety building in the air wasn’t doing him any good. Jimin made a noise in his throat that could have been a gag or a noise of agreement.

And so, Tae continued. “As she said, I was always a little more level headed, I was able to take a step back and see everything from a broader view—I understood some of the…logics?—” Tae quirked an eyebrow “—behind her motives, why she did the things she did, granted…some of it was…” Tae paused, choosing his words carefully. “Please, speak freely, I’m intrigued about what you have to say.” Rathshiva arched an eyebrow and the corner of Hoseok’s lip twitched into an evil smirk.

Tae nodded once before continuing, “Impulsive and twisted, but understandable in a way—there certainly were better ways to go about some of the things she did, but Yoongi being Yoongi…if things don’t go his way, he kinda loses it, as we all know.” Tae sucked in a breath.

“In short, her morality is fucked, but she usually meant well—she does like to be an evil bitch sometimes, but who doesn’t?” Rathshiva breathed a laugh at Tae’s blunt statement. “I’ve been painted as the bad guy for years, if you’re not with him, you’re against him and that makes you a monster.”

“Didn’t you try to kill Yoongi? Like…twice?” Jimin asked, his voice quiet but steady as he locked eyes with Tae; avoiding acknowledging Rathshiva directly was keeping him semi-sane. “Kill? No, I would never kill my children—hurt them a little? Yes, but that’s how they learn, I’m sure you’ve heard of Punishment and Reinforcement.”  

“How long have you been banished to…limbo or wherever?” I asked, She slid her eyes to me next, Her dark gaze prodding uncomfortably into mine, into me. “How long has it been now? Eight years?” She spoke, Tae nodded. “Eight, then.” Her lip curled, disdain apparent in the expression forming on Hoseok’s face.

Eight…years.

It was so strange and foreign to see such expressions form on his face, to hear Her voice through his body, it made a question to come mind—“Where is Hoseok?” “On the back burner, he’s in his own subconscious—it’s like…taking a nap.”

“Why do you keep referring to us as child or your children?” Jimin asked, his voice louder, more confident as he sat up straight—the anxiety was starting to disperse, and the menacing vibe died out with it. “Don’t you know?” Rathshiva asked, lowering Hoseok’s hands to the table to properly face Jimin. “K-know what?” He asked, looking between all of us.

“All witches—psychics, seers, practitioners of magic—whatever you be—if you possess the ability to perform some type of magic or have a…gift, you are a descendant of mine, all witches derived from me.” Rathshiva answered, Hoseok’s eyebrows dipped in confusion. “Wait, really? I didn’t even know that…” Tae sat up straight, leaning his forearms on the table.

“Yes, all witches are mine.” “I thought you just created the immortal Great Witches?” Tae furrowed his eyebrows. “I specifically created those types of witches, yes, but they were already born with the ability to practice and therefore are related to me, I was the first witch, in a sense, the first Magical Entity.”

Something clicked, like adjusting the camera lens to see a clear picture. “So, you’re like…a deity?” I asked, “In a way, yes, not quite human not quite otherworldly—because I inhabit a physical body—though I belong more to the other side than here, because I am an entity.” She inclined her head as she spoke, it was clear she was stating her superiority—something I’ve seen too often with Yoongi. Most of the time I wanna smack him upside the head when he speaks down to me like that.

“I have ties to both planes, I’m able to go back and forth between the two—unless I get put in an enchanted limbo, crafted by demons, without having a vessel to return to.” She gave a bitter grin. “Once you get put into a lower dimensional limbo, you have to wait for whoever put you there to take you back out, even myself—the spirit worlds and other realms have laws of their own, things even I cannot break, because they don’t belong to me.”

“…I was told you were a demon…that the magic consumed you, and you became one of those things.” Jimin stared blankly at the table top, I could almost hear him working this through his mind. I’m guessing Yoongi brainwashed him the most.

“Child, I am the magic.” Rathshiva spoke, cocking her head to the side, a sly grin tugging at the corner of Hoseok’s mouth.

I took a moment to process this. “This all makes sense, actually...” I briefly locked eyes with Tae before looking to Rathshiva. “What do you mean?” She asked. I saw Jimin shift in his seat, so his body was facing me as I spoke.  

“You’re an entity, a deity of magic—you are the magic,” I breathed a laugh as realization set in, my skin began to hum as a new adrenaline took over.

“In any mythology or theology, the Gods lived by their own ways, their morals were a little fucked too—that explains why you are the way you are. I-I mean, I think we all know every God was,” I paused to breathe, paused to find words, “a little…questionable in their intentions, and it’s not really an excuse for their actions…but all Gods meddle, so you really could have always had good intentions—but it was the way you went about things that set everyone off.”

I wanted to laugh, laugh at the way it all made sense, laugh at the way the whole situation sucked, laugh at the way it was terrifying but alarmingly okay. The room was humming with adrenaline, so many things were happening and coming into light—I almost don’t know how to handle it, I felt like I might burst at the seams. “Other realms have laws of their own, their own moral code, that’s why you clash with humans, with Yoongi—Gods can’t live among men without chaos, you’re not of this plane, so you can’t live here.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be alarmed by the eerie smile that spread across Hoseok’s lips or not—not until Rathshiva said, “I like this one, she gets it…”

“Y/N is a kindred spirit in her openminded view of things, she sees the bigger picture.” Tae spoke, shooting me a wink.

“So…wait, we’re really r-related?” Jimin asked, looking around at everyone at the table, Jimin didn’t pass Go and collect two hundred dollars, he was stuck in Jail, battling with his own mind—realization was hitting him the slowest. “As an entity I pass on my gifts not my genetics, we’re all related through the magic, not blood ties.” Rathshiva spoke, “I never bore a child, but you’re all mine.”  

“Holy shit…” Jimin breathed, eyes wide but not present—he was still somewhere deep in his mind. That’s when I laughed, a laugh that sounded strange coming from my own mouth, but there it was.

And then I was crying again, and everyone was staring at me. “Perhaps…she should rest…I feel that this has all been too heavy on her mind.” Rathshiva spoke, her voice sounded distant, but all too close.

Everything was blurry, sound was distant, things seemed to move in slow motion. I recognized the hands touching me, they were cold, and they gave a feeling of death.

Jimin briefly passed in my vision, even in the haze I could see that his eyes were wide and full of panic as he was left sitting at the table with Rathshiva, Rathshiva in Hoseok’s body. Hoseok.

“Is he going to be okay?” I asked Tae, he had one hand on my lower back guiding me and the other wrapped around my upper arm. “Who? They’re all in a little bit of a…rough place right now.” Tae’s breath was hot compared to his skin as it fanned across my face. “Give it five more seconds, Jimin will be joining you in your mental breakdown.”

“I felt a lot of things today and the day isn’t half over.” I blinked in confusion, we were standing in my bedroom, though I don’t remember walking up the steps—with the way my knees felt, I probably couldn’t have walked up the steps anyway.

“Why do I feel sick every time you touch me?” I asked, sitting down on the edge of my bed. “Ouch,” Tae breathed with a laugh. “I’m dead…you’re feeling death, Y/N.” “But you’re here.” “I’m immortal.”

“How does that work? What’s the magic behind it? The science? I need answers...” Tae looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

“You need to lay down, your mind took a beating today, this is the mental collapse Yoongi was afraid would happen back when you started working with your powers.” Tae spoke, grabbing my shoulders and pushing me back to lay down.

“Stay with me?” I asked, I wanted to look at him, but I was afraid that if I moved my head, I would puke. I felt like I was swimming in space. “I’m going to go get Jimin, he’s about to start losing it too, I think I can hear him repressing the urge to cry, and Rathshiva is enjoying it too much.”

“Her energy is too much to handle, it feels really scattered and overwhelming…she’s really that bitch—I mean witch, she’s that witch…don’t tell her I said that.”

I heard him chuckle low in his throat, “I won’t, I’ll be back…”

What felt like ten minutes was probably only ten seconds, and then Jimin was joining me in bed; his eyes were glazed over, and he looked pale. Tae tucked in Jimin and then sat on the edge of the bed, “I’m going to sit down stairs and chat with our guest while we wait for Yoongi, you two need to stay up here, okay?” “Need?” I repeated. “Yes, no matter what—noises, voices, anything, you stay in this room, got it?” He patted Jimin’s stomach, and then stood. “Tae?” I lolled my head to the side to look at him, “Don’t let anyone die…”

Tae smiled, though with the way the laugh bubbled past his lips, he sounded nervous, “I won’t.” He wasn’t fully confident in his words, but he said them, and then he left, taking one last glance into the room.

“Tae?” He was gone, but I knew he could still hear me, “Don’t be a martyr.”

Then dissociation set it, I spent some time locked in my own mind; derailed scenes—some from today, some not—floated in and out, nothing really seemed to make sense anymore, the moment of clarity was gone. I could hear Jimin’s breathing as he laid next to me—unmoving and probably spaced out. “What if this is all one big shared delusion?” I spoke, narrowing my eyes as I stared at the ceiling. “I don’t think all of us can go crazy at once…not about the same thing.” “People can share delusions, Jimin, it happened in France.” “What are you even talking about?” “I don’t know.”

Silence fell after that. The energy was slowly dispersing—it seems being distant from Rathshiva was working. Though I wondered what the overwhelming energy was doing to Hoseok’s body, I wondered if he would have a body to come back to…I wondered if Yoongi found her body.

When my mind cleared enough to register my surroundings, I could have laughed in disbelief, the sun was setting. Yoongi hadn’t come back yet, and hours had passed…what if something went wrong? What if he ran?

“Why…do you think he did it?” I asked, I could feel my heart speed up at my own question, I didn’t really want an answer, but I did. “He…wanted power? I guess.” Jimin mumbled. “Power…as if he didn’t have enough of it…” I scoffed, I couldn’t grasp why he was doing it, why take that risk?

“Like he said, he was using it.” Jimin rolled over to face me, I didn’t move to match his position though, I didn’t want to, it would make the conversation too real—but I still needed to know. “I don’t buy the ‘I was protecting myself’ bit, protecting himself from what?” Jimin was silent, I used the silence to create my own theories.

“I think he was using it to keep her there, he could do whatever he wanted with her away, he was using the demons to do his bidding…she said the limbo was lower dimensional, demon made, maybe he used them to keep her away?” I could feel the muscles in my forehead shift as my eyebrows bunched together. I needed confirmation.

“Why did he want to keep her away though? What else was he doing?” I whispered to myself. “I don’t know…I don’t…want to know.” Jimin whispered back, shifting so he was staring up at the ceiling again.

An uncomfortable tension grew in the silence. I didn’t like this waiting game, I felt like I was coming out of my skin.

“Y/N?” “Huh?” “What…do you think is going to happen?” I looked over, this time Jimin was the one who didn’t move to meet my gaze. “He’s going to bring her body back, that’s what he went to do, what else would happen?”

“But…what if…” Jimin squirmed, he didn’t want to ask, didn’t want to make it real—and I didn’t want to know.

“What if that thing comes back, before he does?” The anxiety was back, thick in the air and it slipped down my throat like sludge, I couldn’t respond at first—and so he kept talking. “None of us can really…fight it.” He turned his head to face me, “Rathshiva is limited, barely holding it down in Hoseok’s body; me, you and Tae don’t have any powers like that, and even if—we’d be defenseless against a demon.” I hated this, absolutely hated it. “Jimin…don’t say that…” Shut up, shut up, shut UP. “It’s not going to happen like that, she’ll get her body back, she’ll help if she has to, she…said she would.”

I didn’t know that though, not for sure, none of us did. All we could do was wait. I didn’t doubt that she would help, I didn’t doubt that Yoongi would make it back with her body…but I did doubt when, because then what?

There was a loud thump from down stairs, and Jimin and I both went rigid. Silence followed, one, two, three seconds and then, “It’s okay!” Tae called up the steps. Jimin sucked in a breath of relief. “What do you think that was?” Jimin whispered.

“Rathshiva briefly leaving Hoseok’s body.” Tae said from the other side of the door before coming in, Jimin and I both jerked in surprise.

“She left?!” I sat up, Tae nodded. “She had to, or she’d destroy his body—he hit the floor, but he’s lying down on the couch now.” “But what if the thing comes back? Then what?” I recycled Jimin’s question, now that it was a prevalent concern. Tae swallowed thickly, “Then we…uh, you guys stay up here, and I’ll worry about it, but in the meantime, I’m moving you into Yoongi’s room—it’s protected…just in case.”

“It’ll rip you apart.” Jimin gushed. Tae blinked in response, nervously flexing his hands at his side. “I can handle it, long enough, don’t worry. Yoongi should be back soon.” He didn’t sound sure, and I hated that. “Why not come into Yoongi’s room with us then?” I asked, “I can’t, I’m not permitted to enter, it’s protected—anything that’s not living, breathing, flesh and blood can’t enter.”

“Then I’m not going, it’s not fair.” I spoked, balling my fists in the blanket. “Don’t be difficult, come on, get up.” Tae sighed, moving towards the bed, I didn’t move. “I’m fine here, Jimin can go.” After a second of contemplation, Jimin shook his head, “Hoseok is passed out down stairs, so what about him? I’m not going either—we all go, or none of us go.”

“So, then what? We all die because you’re stubborn? What happened to not being a martyr?” The dark look that crossed over Tae’s face as he spoke was enough to paralyze the breath in my throat, and once his words set in, I was back.

“What happened to none of us dying, huh?” Tae opened his mouth to argue, but was silenced by the front door crashing open, all of us froze, wide eyed. “It’s Yoongi,” Tae breathed before rushing out of the room in a blur. I stayed for a breath of my own and then I was up, nearly tripping over the blanket as I took it with me. “Where are you going?!” Jimin yelled, scrambling to stand. “Down stairs.” I rushed out of the door and down the steps.

“HEY!” Jimin yelled again, stopping at the top of the steps. I only made it halfway down the hallway before Tae sprung out of the parlor doorway, grabbing me around the waist and yanking me into the room. “What are you DOING?!” He hissed all too loud into my ear. “I want to see!” I fought against him, catching a glimpse of Hoseok on the couch, he looked a little…too relaxed. “Is he okay?” I tried to pull away from him again, before I got an answer, I heard Yoongi yell, “TAE!” from the kitchen. “Not now.” Tae spat at me, dragging me with him as he left for the kitchen.

When we got to the kitchen, Tae let me go but stood firmly in the doorway, trapping me in the kitchen; his eyes were flaming, and his nostrils flared as he breathed out.

“What.” He spoke to Yoongi through clenched teeth, I turned too, my gaze landed on Yoongi before it wandered to the body on the table. All of the chairs were knocked over, kicked out of the way and away from the table. “Is that—” “Why is she down here?” Yoongi threw a wild-eyed look my way, he was rushing around, making a circle around the table with black salt and herbs. His hair was disheveled, and his bangs clung to his forehead with sweat, sweat soaked through his shirt and it stuck to his skin.

He looked insane, frantic, almost unrecognizable in this state.

“I need, I-I need…” Yoongi breathed, “The book from my table in the basement, get the book from the table in the basement.” Tae was gone before Yoongi could finish his sentence.

I approached the table, careful to not get too close to the circle.

The body on the table was thin—petite and short, she couldn’t have been more than five-foot-two. “Is this…” I trailed off. She was pale enough that you could see the blue veins running underneath the skin of her arms and neck, though the veins were primarily black along the backs of her hands and around her eyes. Her fingernails were long and black, as were her fingertips, but it faded back into pale skin at the middle knuckle.

The features of her face were sharp and angular, the eyes were closed—but I knew that once they opened, they would be pitch black—dark lashes feathered thick from gray eyelids. Her lips were gray, but black licked along the seam in an oddly natural ombre. Dark, bold brows matched her hair, which fell in wild curls, almost unkept.

Her dress, frayed at the elbows, was off white and dingy; it laced at the bust and stopped at her ankles—she wasn’t wearing shoes, her feet were like her hands—black to pale.

Yoongi started reading from his book, I hadn’t noticed that Tae came back up, I hadn’t noticed the exchange, I hadn’t noticed him pulling at my arm until he spoke. “Come on, we’re going back upstairs.” “No…” I pushed his hands away weakly, I wanted to watch, it was…bewitching, she was bewitching.

I noticed something, a messy circle of pointed sticks laid over her stomach, it can’t be what I think it is. “What is that?” I pointed to it. “Crown of thorns, to mock Christ.” It was.

Tae tugged at my arm again, “No,” I jerked away from his grip. “Leave her.” Yoongi spat between reciting his mantra. Tae made a noise in his throat but didn’t push, he wandered out of the room and down the hall—back to the parlor.

The lights flickered, and the house hummed with electricity—just as it did any time Yoongi channeled a lot of magic. The room spun with a source-less, chilled breeze and the lights cut out; I could barely make out Yoongi and the table, but he kept working.

“Y/N?” I didn’t recognize the voice, the whisper—I barely heard it over Yoongi—but I answered. “Huh?” I looked around the room, though I couldn’t see anyway.

“Don’t talk to it.” Tae was back, appearing silently behind me and breathing down the back of my neck—hands firmly planted on my waist—catching me off guard, I let out a yelp and then slapped my hand over my own mouth. “Don’t. Talk. To. It.” He repeated firmly, his forehead pressed against the back of my head, “Don’t answer it. I’ll be back. Don’t move.” He whispered, and then he was gone.

It’s coming, it’s here.

My heart sped up and my palms began to sweat; the anxiety crept up my spine and trickled down—crackling softly like electricity—down to my heels and back up to the back of my neck.

It felt like someone was—The hallway creaked behind me, as if on cue.

I hoped it was Tae. No, he’s silent, quick, like a shadow.

The hallway creaked again, closer, and the air left my lungs. I kept my eyes on the spot where I knew Yoongi was, even if I could only see the outline of his body. The heat from my palms traveled up to my armpits, up to my scalp, and the coil of anxiety in my stomach felt like it might burst at any second. The hair on the back of my neck prickled almost painfully as it stood on end, warning me—it was close.

“Y/N?” The voice was soft, feminine, almost…childlike. I shook my head at the thought. It’s not real. “Y/N…please…” The voice shifted, now sounding like Hoseok; tired, weak, scared.

Or…was it Hoseok? He didn’t look good when I saw him. I know Rathshiva could have destroyed his body—that’s why she left it…maybe she left it because she destroyed it?

No, no he’s fine. Tae would have said something…right? Or would he? Maybe he didn’t want to say anything because— the floor creaked, right behind me, it’s right there.

“Y/N, I need help…I can’t breathe…she…hurt…me.” The voice died out in a low, gargling noise, followed by a splatter—as if someone spilled something; and then there was a thud, like someone hit the floor…or the wall? I couldn’t tell.

No, no this feels wrong, I need to check, I need to.

“Hoseok?” I whispered, not wanting to move. “Y/N.” He said again, low, as if it was coming from the floor. “Hos-” I shifted to turn. “DON’T!” Tae’s voice boomed from the bottom of the steps, I jumped and shifted back to face Yoongi; wide eyed, my heart hammering in my chest. There was a faint chuckle from behind me, and a dragging noise, “Let’s see the boy for real then…” the voice was deep, guttural, inhuman.

“No!” Tae and I said at the same time, his voice coming out much louder than my own, there was a spring of footsteps and then a loud crash, the sound of glass breaking followed.

A cackle ripped through the air, and there was a yell of pain coming from an all too familiar deep voice. “No, no, no, nonono.” Tears stung my eyes and my throat seized up with the urge to yell out—and so I did, “Do something!” I yelled at Yoongi, who kept repeating his mantra, his voice cracked in response. I knew there was nothing he could do, we needed Rathshiva.

There were more bangs and shatters, the furniture lining the hallway audibly collided with walls—the deafening sound of splintering wood mixed with muffled curses and yelps echoed with Yoongi’s mantra.

It was too much.

The noises halted and there was a loud, drawn out gasp as the unmistakable sound of someone being punched resonated tauntingly down the hall; the raspy chuckle that came next made my stomach lurch with the need to puke. “Do you feel my fingers in your heart, boy?” There was a wet gurgling noise and a splatter—as if flicking paint at a canvas—and then there was nothing from the hallway. Yoongi stuttered over his mantra, the last of the words leaving his mouth in a rush of air. Tears leaked from my eyes and I covered my mouth to stop the sob. There was no doubt what that was, what that meant.

The electricity in the air cracked and dropped, and so the lights in the house turned back on. “Don’t look, don’t turn around!” Yoongi’s voice was hoarse as he spoke from his position on the floor, his back was against the counter and his knees were pulled into his chest; he was staring wide eyed at the table, his face and neck were visibly dripping sweat.

Rathshiva’s body arched off of the table and then it dropped, she was still for a second, then two, then three—and then she sprang to life. She moved like Tae as she took off down the hall, but in a black haze of mist.

There was a long, animalistic, inhuman scream; and I heard several of the light bulbs in the next room—the room closest to Rathshiva—shatter. “Y/N come here, come here.” Yoongi jumped to his feet and rushed around the table to grab me, he pulled me to the farthest corner away from the kitchen doorway, I could feel his hand trembling as he gripped my arm.

Once the light show ended, he sucked in a deep breath and dropped his arm from mine. “I…I need you to stay here…please…stay here. Right here.” Yoongi looked to me with wild eyes, his breath was coming out in pants. He took a hesitant step away from me, facing me as he did so, I nodded; I couldn’t half see him through the haze of tears. He took another slow step, and then turned on his heel and bolted towards the door way; but he stopped in the doorway and stared into the hallway. His shoulders slumped, and his lips parted as air forced its way from his lungs, he wasn’t looking around—he was fixated on a single spot—and I knew.  

My back hit the wall and I sucked in raspy breath, and it left again in a wail. I slid down the wall, gripping my own throat with both hands. Several wracked sobs left my throat before I looked over again, Yoongi was no longer standing in the doorway—he had gone down the hall.

“Is-is-is,” I couldn’t get it out, my throat wouldn’t allow it.

After a few painfully quiet seconds, Yoongi wandered back into the kitchen, his face was blank, and his eyes were distant; bloody shoe prints followed him, and he stopped next to me, sliding down the wall to join me. “Is…” I sucked in a breath and wiped my face frantically, trying to compose myself, as if it would help me speak, as if it would fix the situation. “Is he…dead?” Fresh tears spilled as the word left my lips. Yoongi opened and closed his mouth but didn’t say anything, instead he reached over and put his hand on my knee.

“And Hoseok?” I asked. “He’s…fine.” “But Tae…?” I needed to hear it, he had to say it.

“His heart is at the other end of the hallway, but I can fix that.” Rathshiva materialized from black mist in the kitchen, “He’s not headless, that’s good. That—I cannot fix.”

“Yoongi, help me.” She spoke, her dress swishing around her legs as she walked out of the room. “Wha- wait, what?” Yoongi jumped to his feet, nearly tripping over himself as he rushed after her, “Y-You can fix that?”

“Yes…He’ll wake up, good as new—as will your little ghost walker friend.” Rathshiva’s voice sounded distant—I was still trying to wrap my brain around what she said.

She can fix this…

“Cleaning up, on the other hand, that won’t be fun.” Her eerie chuckle echoed down the hall.

A/N: First things first, I wanted to end it a little annoyingly. Why? Because I hate cliffhangers/unresolved endings. So why not make EVERYONE SUFFER by lowkey doing that?? 

Also, I combined the basement reveal with Rathshiva’s reveal. Two birds one stone, and I felt it fit better in a way? So! Here’s my favorite evil bitch! God, she’s been haunting me for AGES! It feels nice to let the cat out of the bag finally. I read through this twice, but I find its hard to spot spelling errors/typos when you read your own writing, because you already know what it’s going to say—so if you come across one—please ignore it fusdhgjskdg

I hope you enjoyed this part! Thank you so much for reading!

Feel free to send Rathshiva (or anyone else) some love! She’s open for muse chat—where you can ask her questions, interact with her directly or just come hang out with us~

(Any muse of mine, that has been introduced, is open for muse chat!)

It all begins and ends on a sunny afternoon.

The tree roots whisper as you pass, as if to purposely lead you astray, but you follow them anyway. The forest is never wrong, after all.

So when you stumble against a snowy white fox lying on a field of wisteria, you're only a tad bit surprised.

"Ah, you don't want to do that," you say some time after it woke up in your home and stopped panicking. It's now looking down at your polka dot socks, then looks up sharply to stare at you. You don't think there's a way for foxes to show emotions, but you think that if there were, he'd be staring at you with a little bit of awe.

You clear your throat. "Your foot, I mean. You don't want to strain it."

It just keeps staring at you, one ear twitching a bit.

"Um." You say when it doesn't stop, "You'll be better in a few weeks time. It wasn't that serious."

The fox blink blink blinks before shaking itself off, fur spilling every which way. You take it as acknowledgement enough.

In a few minutes he's managed to sniff and inspect every piece of furniture in your home, ranging from your small couch to your droopy house plant. He trudges and limps and sometimes skips from place to place, and then becomes highly confused when you don't let him climb the kitchen table.

Yoongi appears on your window somewhere between the fox kneading at your rug and the fox trying to catch a moth with its mouth.

"Hey grump," you say to the black cat, scratching behind his ears. Yoongi's tail twitches in dismissal, but he whines when you stop petting him, anyway.

You can almost see when Yoongi's gaze settles on the fox, because when you turn to look he's frozen solid on your couch, as if hoping he can't be seen if he stays still enough. The cat gives you a look.

You raise a brow. "What? Don't look at me like that."

He keeps looking at you like that.

"I helped him over by the wisteria. His foot's a little bad, but it's nothing too bad." The fox stays curled up on your couch, digging his nails into the cushions much like a cat would. An ear twitches in your direction, as if he's sheepish but won't admit to it.

Yoongi mewls a single, drawn out mewl of acceptance. You nod nod nod, and the cat jumps down your window and disappears into the woods right when the wind starts blowing north and the sun starts climbing higher before dropping lower.

The world stills for a while as you work through your home, organizing your chipped cups and bent spoons and funny forks. The mushroom wraith on your door wiggles when you pass it by, and when the frog figurine on your counter croaks in greeting the fox nearly jumps out of its skin.

(The fox is gone by morning, right when the sun settles over the honeysuckle tumbling down your thatched roof. You try to feel for his presence, but it's overwhelmed by the snails and woodpeckers and oversized mushrooms.

You think that's when the letters started coming, perched nicely over your windowsill whenever you're not looking).

There's a man in your pond.

The carp in the water yells indignantly as the man tries to stand but tumbles, pondweed curled over his ankles as if begging him to stay. You just stare because the man tries to get up once then twice then three times, hair loose and windblown and positively drenched, twigs and pondweed in the knots.

You stare and stare until the man notices you and startles, looks away quickly before cringing and hesitatingly meeting your eyes. He lifts a hand, lowers it, lifts it again and waves. You wave back.

"Hello." You say. The man looks a little stunned, more stunned than when the carp had nipped at his feet. You point at the pond, "You're standing in my pond."

"Ah!" He startles, head whipping down like he'd forgotten all about it. "I am! In your pond, I mean. Sorry, sorry." The pondweed untangles itself mercifully, and he shuffles out of the water, toes curling into the dirt around it.

"It's okay!" You shoot him a thumbs up. He stares. "Do you want to, uh, come inside?"

So the man walks through the slim wooden trellis and diligently wipes his feet on the rug, shuffling through the door with hesitant steps. He looks a little like a painting left out too long in the rain, all ruffled hair and stiff shoulders, but pretty nonetheless.

"Would you like some tea?" You say, already grabbing the kettle from the cupboards, "It will have to have milk, though, since the cups don't like serving without."

"Okay! Tea is nice. Thank you." Then he smiles with knee-deep dimples and pinchable cheeks and something inside you kinda melts a little.

The man's name is Namjoon and his skin is tan despite it already being winter, the color of salted caramel. He's so bright you find it easier to look away, to look instead at the space around him, the shadow against the pane of his neck, the length of his-- very long legs. You'll pretend you never noticed that.

You don't talk about why he was in your pond, not really. He's already apologized to the carp, he says. You talk instead about mushroom glades and why avocados are acceptable dinner foods and his intense love for moths and his hopes for snow this year.

When Namjoon leaves it all feels a bit unprecedented. Lost souls show up on your doorstep often, always leaving after a cup of tea and a few helpful directions, but Namjoon doesn't look lost at all. Looks a little like he belongs, really.

He rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, then sticks a hand out in offering. You shake his hand. He nods, lingers on the doorway, plays with a loose stitching of his soft green overalls.

"I'll-- be seeing you, then," he clears his throat, and you just laugh a little loosely because no, you won't. With lost souls, you never do.

Except Namjoon does return. He returns, in fact, in green baseball shorts and an open-collared shirt with sugar packets sticking out of the front pockets. He looks a bit like a dad showing up for his son's football game. Looks a little dangerous but in a harmless way, like a huge gangly bug. A six-foot stick insect hovering outside your door.

You're a little stunned. Very stunned. So stunned that Namjoon cringes, shuffles a bit on your welcome mat. It's a frog with a thought bubble that says welcome! that Namjoon has expressed his love for on multiple occasions.

"Hello," he purses his lips. "I... wanted to thank you. Again. For everything." He sucks in a breath. "Bad time? Bad time. I don't actually remember knocking-- did I knock? God, I didn't, did I? I'm so rude, I'm so sorry."

"No, no," you say once you've recovered. "You, you definitely knocked."

"Oh!" His lips form a surprised little 'o'. You're so fond. "That's good. Okay. I'll... be leaving, then."

"Um!" You interject, "You can come inside, if you want?"

So he comes inside and drinks tea and names the cactus by your windowsill Gerald and discusses his complaints on climate change and you're a little content and a lot confused, because--

Only creatures of the forest can find your house more than once.

Unless--

(That night, you knock on your own walls and glare indignantly. Say, "You led him here, didn't you?"

The walls do nothing. You think you hear a floorboard creak, though.

You stomp your feet like an overgrown child. "I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, but I'm not falling for it!"

No response. Except the wind chimes outside sing brightly, but when you look out the window there's no wind at all).

Namjoon visits once then twice then three times, always showing up unplanned and out of nowhere. He brings a pinecone first then a dandelion next, blushes and says I didn't pluck them against their will! I told them they looked pretty and they volunteered to help me.

He's so pretty it's become a little harder to hold in. He was always pretty, always smiles a bit too brightly, like he's swallowed a star and can't quite keep all the brightness to himself, but something's shifted a bit.

(You contemplate this in a mid afternoon. As in: whisper-screaming to the ceiling for a while. And then whisper-screaming some more when Yoongi walks directly across your face.

"You're a monster," you inform him.

He digs his tiny monster-claws into your stomach.)

One day, you learn the man is weirdly good at knitting. You learn he has a pretty solid grasp on quantum physics. You learn that when he laughs it's a little hah! under his breath, and when he really laughs it turns sideways and belly-up, pitching into something that could almost be defined as a giggle. You learn that you need to stop staring.

Another day, Namjoon sits in the corner of your couch, curled up reading a book he'd picked up from the next village over. It's small but very thick with what could only be very small letters, because he's squinting a bit as he reads. It's vastly endearing.

Another day, he makes cheesy bread in your toaster and felt bad about it for the next three weeks. Which is also the amount of time it took for you to get all the cheese out.

Everything's great.

Today, though, you're walking through the forest alone. The forest doesn't guide you, not really, maybe because it knows you're walking on your own terms.

The forest is noisy with the sounds of birds calling and trees growing and little things skipping here and there through the undergrowth. Your shoes are so muddy you don't really care for how much worse they get, and they squelch when your heels sink into puddles and spongy moss.

You walk and walk until you come across a clearing, a bird feeder propped neatly over a tree branch. A sparrow squawks when it sees you.

"Hello," you say in greeting, and the tree with the bird feeder sighs, the wind blowing and carrying the sound.

A tree root on the ground grabs a fistful of dirt and promptly flings it onto your knees. You shriek indignantly.

You have a lot to figure out, the tree echoes because of course it does. It has a history of saying things vaguely and hoping you'll understand.

"I don't understand," you say out loud.

It flings more dirt onto your knees. You step back protectively, "Okay, okay! I get it!"

One, two. Four clouds in the sky, for now, it says at last, and you're a bit afraid of prying, so you just accept what it says as fact and move on, say one last goodbye to the bluetit that flutters onto the bird feeder.

It starts raining not long after that, when more than four clouds settle over the evening sun, makes it a bit harder to maneuver through the woods. You walk based on feeling, a hand brushing over the tree trunks, silently cursing the tree.

Namjoon is already waiting when you arrive home, hurries forward when he spots you through the trees, holding an umbrella up high.

And it's-- sweet. Just a really sweet thing to do, really considerate. He could have waited inside, in the warmth and shelter, but instead he's walking through puddles to meet you halfway with an umbrella.

He looks a little funny when he stops in front of you, hair disheveled and sticking up in random places, eyes all worried and sullen. He looks like a goose.

"You look like a goose," you say out loud with a little laugh, "I'm already wet though, so there's not much point in this, you know?"

Namjoon's smile is a bit dopey, a bit sloppy at the edges. "But there's not many trees to shield you, from this point on." He says, "Let's-- go inside?"

So you go inside, the house already setting the fireplace with its never-ending firewood, the frog figurine croaking and the wind chimes singing and everything feels a little right. A little more homey.

"Did you find your way back easily?" Namjoon says later, hands cupping his tea mug as he sheepishly adds, "I know this is your-- home, obviously, I don't wanna just assume anything, but-- For me, it's a bit harder to navigate when it rains like this. Fogs my senses and all," he clears his throat.

You purse your lips to keep from smiling, "Do you know how a wood witch works, Namjoon?" You continue when he shakes his head, "A wood witch is the one who planted the first seed that sprouted the first tree that grew the first forest," you say, half-chanting it, cite it like a rhyme long forgotten.

He looks a bit awe-struck. A lot awe-struck. Says, "Oh." And that's that.

You add, sheepish, "It's really not much. I'm not as powerful as other wood witches, but I am grateful to the woods." You hum, "They gave me this cottage. They gave me who I am, really."

"Oh." Namjoon says. "Oh." He stares and stares, open mouthed and in awe and sort of dazed but pretty, pretty. His gaze trails over the room once before settling back on you, says, "You're all the beauty in the world."

And the world-- stills, maybe-- balanced atop a drop of nectar.

You whisper a small, delighted "Oh." And that's that.

Namjoon somehow manages to drag you outside the woods.

You're being dragged through busy streets, cars and crowds and carriages that boggle your senses. The difference between the village and the woods is astounding. (Not that you've never been to nearby cities or villages-- sometimes you crave poptarts and there's nothing you can do about it-- but it's been a while since you've walked into the very heart of it).

You might be a wood witch, but Namjoon is the one who looks a little — lost, outside the woods.

"This is my favorite corner cafe," he admits proudly, "Um, if Seokjin-hyung says anything, please be aware I'm not associated with him."

"Got it." You like this Seokjin guy already.

Taylor Swift is blasting through the speakers when you walk inside, a broad shouldered man swaying from side to side behind the counter as he pours milk into a cup. Once his eyes land on Namjoon he positively grins.

"Namjoon, my man!" He belts out a particularly impressive high note as Namjoon approaches him, but no one around seems at all fazed. "It's been so long!"

"I've been here last week, hyung." Namjoon says but he seems a bit happy to be missed, sheepishly ducking his head.

"That's too long. You should visit more often, it's great! I get free coffee here and don't have to walk through muddy paths and ominous sounds to visit you."

"It's not free though?" Namjoon frowns, "You may own the shop but you're the one who buys all the coffee in the first place."

The man behind the counter makes a noise that's too distorted to understand. "If I wanted someone to tear apart my ideas with logic I'd talk to Yoongi, you're both insufferable."

You want to interject but at the same time don't. You get so absorbed in your own thoughts you almost don't notice when they mention a Yoongi. Huh.

"Oh, you know Yoongi? The cat?" You blink when two sets of eyes settle on you.

"Ah, yes. Yoongi." The man you've now established has to be Seokjin sighs, resting a chin over his palm, "The devious fiend. The pest of the nest. The gremlin goblin."

"Do you ever think before you speak."

"I do! I thought of those words and then I said them."

Namjoon sighs and none of them elaborate any further, but you decide not to pry. You can always just ask Yoongi, anyway.

You both sit in a booth in the far corner where light reflects onto it perfectly but not in an overwhelming way, just enough to be warm and comforting. Seokjin pads over with your drink and Namjoon's latte and shoots excessive finger guns as he leaves, and Namjoon looks a bit like he's refraining from apologizing on his behalf.

Namjoon doodles on napkins and talks like he's reciting a far off poem, except he's talking about what should be the correct pronunciation of pickles and you're kinda maybe really hopelessly endeared.

"Do you think I should paint my nails?" He's saying, closely inspecting his nibbled nails, "Maybe it will make me stop biting my nails."

"Have you thought of green?"

He hums delightedly, "Green! I love green. I'm thinking pink though, since gender norms are a social construct and pink is just pretty in general."

"You'll look like a pretty little winter fairy!" You grin. He flushes pink, too.

Then when you get up to order another drink he stands quick, as if intending to order it for you, but you're already grinning and skipping to the counter and when you turn to look at him he's slowly sitting back down, defeated.

You're maybe smiling too hard when Seokjin walks to take your order. "Ah, Y/n-ssi! How may I help you, my gentle woodland elf?"

"Can I just have the same thing, please?" You say and he hums, walking mechanically towards his cabinets.

Then after staring dazedly at the separate christmas mugs and cinnamon buns and droopy plants, you're looking around when you spot a box by the back counter that looks like an awful lot like a letter slot, a stack of envelopes sitting neatly on top. Oh.

"What's that for?" You gesture towards the box, and Seokjin turns away from the coffee grinder to smile something a little gentle. A little secretive.

"We're a letter shop too, you know?" He looks like he's suppressing a sort of devious smile he doesn't want you to see, "We deliver letters on the writer’s behalf, so the sender stays anonymous."

Your organs twist and melt together all at once. You mumble a small "Oh" and that's that.

Then when you leave Seokjin winks before sending you both off, the man waving boisterously and maybe obnoxiously but you're immensely endeared, wave back until the shop is out of sight and Namjoon is sufficiently embarrassed.

You predictably invite Namjoon inside after you arrive home, deciding that soup after coffee doesn't sound too bad. So you watch as the fireflies do somersaults and the moths hover over lamps as you both go for seconds and then for thirds and you don't say much, maybe say nothing at all, but that's okay, too.

The soup signals a change, you think. Either

1) You are in love with Namjoon and need to tell him.

Or

2) You are in love with soup and need to seek help.

So you walk through the forest.

Namjoon is at home, you know, but you feel that talking to Namjoon about your possible love for Namjoon is a bit counterproductive, so you walk through the forest instead.

Everyone is still adjusting to last night's downpour, the floors muddy and the leaves droopy and everything smelling like wet earth. You walk but you're hovering a few inches off the ground, silently thank the forest for its kindness.

You walk through the forest again the next day, think back to the tree with the bird feeder and think that maybe he wasn't so vague after all. Just wish that he could tell you what to do next.

It's easier to listen to a tree's vague advice than it is to follow through with it, you think, until a few weeks later, when the universe decides you need a little push. A big push. The biggest push.

Namjoon has been visiting consistently for the past month or so, sometimes staying over and sometimes staying just before nightfall, but for maybe a week you haven't heard of him at all. He's disappeared without a trace.

The forest guides you this time, patches of sunlight shining through trees as you follow. You think you hear the shrill argument between a finch and a jay on the treetops as you navigate through mushroom patches and mossy rocks.

It's the field of wisteria. You're in the field of wisteria when you find a small burrow, a little home for a woodland creature.

When you turn, you see-- Namjoon. Namjoon, eyes widened in horror, a strangled sound breaking free from his throat. Two white fox ears standing ramrod straight on his head.

You clear your throat. Say, "Hi, Namjoon."

He shrieks.

A finch flutters onto the bird feeder, eyes twinkling, "Guys, you will not believe what I just found out--"

"We know," the jay says.

"We know," the bluetit says.

"We know," the sparrow says.

Even Yoongi mewls from a higher tree branch.

The finch squawks, gossip stolen from right under its wing, "How on Earth did you all know?"

"The forest made the house bigger," Yoongi drawls, tail swishing here and there, "And we all helped deliver the letters."

"Different from someone, we can actually keep secrets!" Says the jay, chest puffed proudly, ignoring the offended squeals from the finch.

"You know, it was actually kind of obvious."

You hum from beside Namjoon, his arm draped over the back of the couch inches away from dropping onto your shoulder. He wants to tug you closer, comb a hand through your hair, but the mere thought has his face burning and ears threatening to pop out at the stress. He's kissed you before, dozens of times, for many reasons and for no reason at all, but it all still feels a little nerve wrecking, like one push will have you burst at the seams.

(Which, frankly, is ridiculous-- you're the strongest person he knows, but-- but.)

"What is?" He says to distract himself.

"The letters stopped coming after you started showing up, and you literally took me to a letter shop." You falter and add, "And just.. the way you say things, it sounds like how you sound when you write. I don't know if I'm making sense, but it's-- nice." You explain, a hint of affection on your voice.

That has nothing to do with being a fox shifter and everything to do with you sitting so prettily next to him, smelling like Ilsan sunshine and kept promises and damp earth, like the forest itself.

"Hmm," he hums, a hand settling on your thigh, finally gathering the courage to drop his arm onto your shoulder--

"Namjoon, you really don't have to hesitate for this kind of stuff." You say, turning to look at him with a grin. His face burns as he clears his throat pointedly, crossing one leg over the other as he finally drops an arm over your shoulder.

"M'sorry," he mumbles.

"Don't be," You press a kiss to his chin, "And you better kiss me properly this instant, because it seems you still think that crocs are acceptable footwear. I'm gonna come to my senses any second now."

"Please don't," he says, a little wild. Then he's moving, nose brushing over your cheek, and then— and then—

A hand curling softly over your cheek, a little giggle, and his lips pressing gently over your own. Something a bit real. Un-takeback-able. You taste a lot like the poetry he writes, still writes, like you're pressing the wonders of the world to his lips, like he's skimming the universe with his hands.

(Once upon a time, you saved a fox lying in a field of wisteria.

That time never comes, because as it turns out, you're not alone.

When you walk into your room for the night you see Jimin already there, duvet up to his chest. He scrambles to sit when he hears you walk in, and you look and then really look, and he smiles something a bit crooked. A bit sloppy at the edges.

"Hello." Is the first thing he says, a bit rushed and a bit breathless, and you can't help it. You snort.

"Hello," you greet, shutting the door behind you. "Um." You breathe, "Am I in the wrong room?"

Your husband seems to come to at that, and he flings himself off the bed but doesn't walk any closer. "No, no," He gulps, you think, "It's just. They told me to, uh, let us share. The room, that is. To-- bond. Or something."

You breathe out a laugh but feel equally flustered, "Oh. Okay." You breathe in for five long seconds, hold it for three, and let it out in eight, the way Namjoon taught you to. "Cool, yeah, that's fine."

Except it's-- not fine, not really, but-- but.

It takes a second, but then you're marching forward and crawling under the duvet and then feel Jimin hesitate before doing the same. Your back is facing his, and it's a little weird and a lot awkward but you feel as if there's nothing you can do about it.

It's still your wedding night. Well, not technically, since it's past midnight, but-- you'd gotten married less than 24 hours ago.

You're a kitchen witch and Jimin's a green witch, and his district was in need of a kitchen witch, and it was a marriage of convenience. Politics, or whatever. You don't like the thought of getting bound to someone for the sake of convenience, but it's too late now, so. So.

Right as the silence starts to become too much and you're about to start ascending from the mortal plane, you speak. "You still awake, husband?"

He flinches with his whole body. Something about the casual husband, probably. Definitely. Too soon.

For a second you think he won't say anything but then he does, curled in small on the bed, "Yeah."

"Hm." You hum. Silence. "So what's your favorite... color?"

You think you hear a little laugh, and it makes you crack a smile. "Really?" He says, just the tiniest bit amused.

"It's all I got, sorry." You drawl out a hum, as if to think, then say, "Okay, so, uh.. your favorite animal? Favorite food? Your M&M color of choice?"

He smiles a little. "They all taste the same, though."

"Nonsense. Red is superior." He doesn't answer but doesn't seem to be debating about it, either, so you say, "Just say any color."

"Yellow, then."

"Okay no, anything but that."

"What's wrong with the yellow M&M?"

"Everything! It looks like it's hiding something."

Jimin snorts. You take it as victory enough.

It takes a second and then the silence is loud again. What would a green witch like? Think, think, think-- "Oh! Favorite flower!"

When you turn around, your nose brushes over his. You hadn't felt him turn around.

Jimin shuffles back, and you don't take it to heart. "I like camellias." He says after a moment, as if to just throw something out, then reconsiders and says, "Snowdrops. I like snowdrops. They're stubborn little flowers."

He doesn't elaborate for one second, then two, then when it seems like the silence dragged on for too long he says, "Even in harsh weather, they always bloom."

You don’t know much.

You don't know much, but you know this-- Jimin's left ear is pierced three times along the lobe, and when his nose scrunches, his eyes curve into half moons. There's a little bump on his nose. He's a green witch and, like most green witches do, seems to love flowers. Might actually prefer the yellow M&M.

He holds people's hands gently, like someone who has a lot of love in his heart.

"That's nice," you say when the silence drags on for half a second too long, "That's really nice, Jimin."

He smiles, and it's something you'd seen him do before, but it seems different this time. Less rough around the edges. Like the tension in his muscles relaxed just the slightest bit, so small you hadn't even noticed it until it wasn't there. It's not a lot, but it's something.

"Okay, so. Pisces."

He blinks, then-- "Libra."

You gasp, "What! That doesn't make sense! You're too," you say, but pause. Give him a once-over. "Well actually, maybe."

"I didn't ask to be born in october!" He says, indignant, almost, and things seem just a little more okay.

Things are not okay.

Because when you wake up that morning, the bed is empty and you hear barely muffled cries from the bathroom.

Now, the polite thing would be to ignore it, maybe. But you're a firm believer that people that are crying shouldn't be alone unless they ask for it. That maybe just someone being in the room helps.

You hover by the door, make enough noise to make your presence known, and hear when Jimin gasps and says, "Shit, sorry, come in-- ah, shit."

When you push open the door, you find Jimin slumped over the toilet seat lid. He's quick to look away, brush away his tears, continue to mutter a mantra of curse words. His eyes are red rimmed and kind of puffy.

You step in closer, sit on the floor next to him.

You don't push, but he looks at you like he expects you to. You hum after a second, just to remind him you're there, you're listening, you want to know more, if he's willing to tell.

A sniffle, then-- "I couldn't figure out the shower."

You don't say anything. The floor is cold and probably gross but you keep sitting there anyway. You're not here for your comfort.

"I'm sorry." Jimin murmurs.

"Don't be sorry."

"No, it's just," he laughs hoarsely. "Everything is weird right now, but you're--" You hear him breathe out shakily, "You're nice. And everyone has.. mostly nice things to say about you."

"Who did you talk to? It was Jin, wasn't it?" You continue at Jimin's silence, "I knew it! Whatever he said please be aware I'm not associated with him."

"It wasn't Seokjin-ssi!" He says but it sounds hesitant. At your looks he continues guiltily, "I swore an oath, you have to pretend you believe me."

You laugh quietly. His lips wobble like he's holding back either a laugh or maybe a strangled sob.

There's a wad of toilet paper on the bathroom counter you think looks snotty and Jimin looks so impossibly lost. You want to give him a hug but that's weird so you don't.

"Do you want to talk about it more?"

He's frowning. "It’s nothing, everything just feels like, like a lot," Jimin exhales, "Like, I've never been in a relationship, a-and now I'm married? It just feels,"

"Different." You nod.

"Different!" He agrees and turns to you, and it's just then you realize it's the first time he's really looked at you.

"I get it. If there's one person that gets it, it's me." You chuckle but it comes out awkwardly. Jimin stares.

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry. I hadn't even considered that." He's frowning, but he's not crying and you take that as a good sign. That maybe things won’t be as bad.

"It's fine," you say offhandedly.

"It's not though! I was being unfair to you."

You shake your head, "S'okay. There's a lot going on. You're forgiven." You stand up, brush off your pants, and say, "Let's figure out this shower."

There's faded eye liner over his eyes and cheeks. After you both manage the shower, you grab some make up removers from your bag and place it on the bathroom counter, just where he can see it, and can only hope he does.

It's only a little while later that you're both picked up.

You'd dressed up a little nicer; a nice sweater that bunches up at the shoulders, fixed your hair in the mirror, coordinated your socks. You probably look more put together than you actually are.

Jimin's mother is all smiles and bunched up cheeks and laughter lines. Her hand is warm when she places it over yours, says please take care of my Jiminie, shortly followed by a wink and a cheeky no canoodling in the backseat!

Except there's-- there's no conversation, (much less canoodling), even as you're both sitting next to each other in the car. The only time you see Jimin really move is when he coos at a herd of cows and occasionally shuffles as if uncomfortable. You don't think he likes driving, but you're too scared to ask.

When you arrive you're left to stand and gape at your new home, gape at the vines crawling over the building, the walls made of untrimmed bushes and the dandelions growing between the cracks in the concrete. You're left to stare and gape and ache at the change, at how much you miss home already.

Jimin recovers more quickly, dragging his suitcase behind him as he walks inside. You watch from the sidelines as he greets and hugs each staff member that comes into view, as if they're long lost friends, as though they won't leave you two alone just after you both get settled in.

A staff member finds you admiring a painting that stretches out long, brushing a hand over the ridges of the long dried paint. They say their apologies quick, of not having seen you before and whatnot-- but you can't blame them. You would have been entranced with Jimin, too.

Then your bags are being whisked away and you're left standing alone in the middle of the living room-- your living room. You're left wondering and standing and struck with the thought of wowowow-- this is your home. This is your home for possibly the rest of your life.

You want to ask Jimin what he thinks of all this.

If he's just as overwhelmed as you are.

But when you walk inside your shared bedroom, his suitcase is sitting in the corner and everything seems untouched. Not a trace of comfort or familiarity.

Then, on the nearby desk, sits your make up remover, a post-it note underneath in pretty handwriting that says a simple thank you.

When Seokjin visits, it's with a Kim Namjoon blinking owlishly from behind him.

"I brought a little friend," Seokjin gestures to the giant, who's still very much looking at you as if you're a ghost. "I had to climb the mountain and all! Totally not worth it, let me tell you!"

Namjoon ignores Seokjin in favor of clasping both your shoulders and shaking you aggressively, "You got married?"

Then you're nearly knocked off your feet when another voice emerges with a booming, "The little shit really got married!"

You try to look at Seokjin in mock betrayal, but your breath is being cut off short and the life is being squeezed out of you, so it's practically impossible.

"Get off me you heathens, I can't breathe." Namjoon releases you, but Hoseok's arms stay wrapped around you from behind, and you sigh. Pat his arm fondly.

Hoseok lets you go in favor of handing you a self proclaimed marriage gift basket. There are some essential oils and neroli bath bombs and soaps he probably made himself. You dig deeper and find an apple and a single grape.

"The grape was Seokjin's idea." Namjoon clarifies.

You flick the grape over Seokjin's head just as he starts saying I would do no such thing--!

It's only later that they bring it up again, Namjoon resting his head on a tree from the garden as Hoseok stays cross legged across from him, sipping his tea. Namjoon's patting the tree, saying something soft to it, and you think you hear the wind sigh almost wistfully. Hoseok likes to call it the Namjoon Effect.

"So. Park Y/n, huh?" Hoseok says cheekily.

"Shut up," you say but there's no bite to it.

"Can't believe you got married. They grow up so fast," Namjoon pretends to wipe away a tear, and you slap lightly at his shoulder with a strangled cry.

"You weren't even at the wedding, you don't get to say that!"

"They sent us to the mountains, how were we supposed to know?"

"Well if you really loved me, you'd find a way to be there," you pretend to sniffle, catch Hoseok taking a long and rather dramatic drag of his tea.

"Stop acting like Jin-hyung, we only need one of him." Hoseok says. You can almost hear Seokjin's indignant screech from somewhere inside, even though it's physically impossible for him to have heard you.

Then Namjoon asks when you'll introduce them to your husband and it then begins a mantra of a series of drawn out do it, do it, do it's that sound more like a demonic summoning than anything convincing, but you get up and try to look for Jimin anyway.

You find your husband in question tucked in small on the desk of your shared bedroom, cheek pressed to a book about flower anatomy but all his post-it notes have are scrawled words and doodles of opossums.

You smile lightly to yourself and drape a blanket over his shoulders, run a hand through his fringe and watch it flop back down with a little laugh. Brush a loose eyelash off his cheek softly.

When you walk out, the three that had invaded your home are sprawled over the couch and Hoseok is looking at you too knowingly for your liking. Seokjin offers you the wine he'd been drinking despite it being 1 in the afternoon, and shrugs when you turn him down quickly.

"Where is he? How’d it go?" Hoseok asks, and when you reply with a shut up, it's too weak for your liking and he laughs. You feel heat rush to your cheeks.

Then when Jimin surfaces not twenty minutes later, you think he looks flustered, too.

The next few weeks go by in a blur.

Every day goes by the same as the last: you go to sleep with your back pressed to Jimin's, and wake up alone. Sometimes his side is cold and sometimes it's not. Sometimes you catch Jimin baking bread in the morning, trimming the bushes and cutting the stems of the roses.

And that would be fine if not for the fact that Jimin has been doing pretty much the same things as you except for the potion-making, but he always seems to be doing them in a different time and in a different place and honestly, you just want to go back to the time you'd talked about your favorite M&M colors.

The only time you truly talk to him are the polite hellos he offers in the morning, when it still feels like you're walking through murky water, eyes still droopy with sleep.

Today you wake up with the sun, roughly 7 AM, maybe. You turn and Jimin's side is empty and you decide that's the last straw.

When you get up, shuffle, shuffle, shuffling because no one deserves to be awake at this hour, you catch him in the garden.

"Hello?" you say, and it comes out as more of a question. The man is hunched over a rosebush, as if to tend to the roses, but they look to be halfway dead and you think you'd heard him talking to them before you arrived.

The thought that you're intruding tugs at your subconscious, and maybe it's a silly thought since he was talking to a rosebush, but-- but. You can't help but feel like maybe the roses make better conversation than you do.

Jimin cranes his neck to look at you, and his cheeks are flushed. There's a streak of dirt on his cheek, somehow, and when he peels off his gloves, there's dirt stuck under his nails, too. You try not to let the fondness show on your face, because it's weird to feel endeared by a stranger, no matter how cute the stranger might be. No matter if that stranger is your husband.

"Hello," he blinks. "What're you doing here?" He says, not cruelly. You tug at your shirt anyway, suddenly nervous.

Not everyone feels nervous to talk to their husband. Not everyone has a husband that avoids them, either, but-- well. Maybe it's time you change that.

You get stuck between saying a too-casual hey and a too-formal hello and end up with a too-eager "Heyo!" and a piece of you kinda dies on the spot. "I was just, like, passing by, you know? I was going through the garden and all." Looking for you is what you don't say, and you can only hope it doesn't show on your face.

"Right," he says, clearing his throat.

There's silence until you crouch beside him, piping up quietly, "So what're we doing?"

"We?" He smiles lightly, then turns back to the roses, "We're cutting off the stems."

"What for?" You frown, "For them to die even more?"

"Y/n!" He says, scandalized, almost, "Don't say that, you'll offend them."

"Why would plants be offended." You deadpan but feel a vine tickle your ankle, as if to curl around your leg and tug you down to the floor.

"Great, now the roses won't like me," he glares halfheartedly before turning back to the roses in question, murmuring softly, "Don't listen, I'm not associated with this person."

"What!" You yell, thoroughly offended, but then he does something incredible. Something so mind boggling your tongue suddenly feels ten times too heavy in your mouth as you watch, stunned.

He does a full body giggle. Oh no.

You hadn't even realized you were holding your breath until Jimin smiles at you and your chest rearranges itself into something that actually resembles the human anatomy. You tug absently at a loose thread on your sleeve.

"Do you have any mugwort around?" You find yourself asking.

His eyes widen with something akin to curiosity, but he doesn't ask what you'd need it for. "I think I saw some over by the hyacinths," Jimin says as if you'd possibly know where those are, and he smiles when the confusion doesn’t leave your eyes. "I'll take you there."

He stands, then, and he's-- quite small. Strangely, you hadn't noticed this before, mostly because he doesn't really seem like a small man. Even now, he looks larger than life.

(In truth, mugwort helps you sleep a bit better. Doesn't quite make a concoction, it's not nearly strong enough for that, but just a little bit of it stuffed under your pillow is enough. Some bundles of hyssop stashed between the sofa cushions. A few water-based sigils drawn into the corners of the room.)

(The room that doesn't quite feel like yours, but-- Maybe it will be.)

When you wake up that day, it's to Seokjin waving a spatula around in your kitchen.

You think he sees the question in your eyes, because he huffs as if you've personally offended him. "What! What's wrong with visiting my dear friends?"

And you'd accept it at just that, if Seokjin weren't the Head Councilor for your district. For all the districts, actually.

He flips a pancake flawlessly and you watch it sizzle in silence. He doesn't ask how you've been doing, because he must already see it-- the plants are still halfway dead; the greenhouse still adjusting to Jimin, maybe. You haven't been making any real potions, and while spring might be six months away, there's been no progress. No progress at all.

And it aches a bit, because before Seokjin became the Head Councilor, he was your friend, and you really don't want to disappoint him.

(Don't really want to disappoint Jimin, either, but-- But.)

"Have you two seen the town yet?" Seokjin asks, squeezing what could only be considered too much syrup onto his pancake. He's sitting at the head of the table because "only those elder and wise deserve the position," apparently, and you and Jimin are sitting opposite each other. You don't think of how this is the first time you're having breakfast with your husband.

"No," Jimin answers for you, and you most definitely do not think of how the syrup made his too big lips look sticky and pretty. "We've been, uh. Busy."

"Yeah, busy." You nod nod nod, and you think Seokjin looks at you questioningly but you're shoving the equivalent of three forkfuls of pancake into your mouth to avoid speaking any more.

Jimin drinks tea with his pancakes, with three sugars and too much milk and some crushed sage. You raise a brow when he mixes the leaves in, and he hides behind the rim of the cup when he raises it to his lips, tips of his ears a bit pink.

"It's a dietary supplement for digestion!" Jimin says defensively when you don't stop staring at him. "Don't look at me like that!"

You keep looking at him just to tease but find that you can't look away. You need to stare at something that's not him because every time you make eye contact you feel a bit twitchy.

Seokjin suddenly speaks through a mouthful of pancakes, "So I'm sure you're wondering why I'm here," He says, ignores your muttered not really, then continues with, "I wanted you to hear it in person. The rumors are true. I am to be wed on summer's eve. Hudreds of guests, of whom I will know three."

"Truly tragic for your partner, then." You sip and ignore Seokjin's indignant squawk.

"Jimin-ssi!" A clatter resounds where Seokjin slams his fork on the table, "I am having a passionate love affair with your partner. I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but it's my only regret. What have you offered me, Y/n? Nothing. I barely remember our time together."

For a second you're kind of appalled that he'd say this in front of your actual husband, then in another you wonder when Jin will mature past the point of sticking his tongue out at people as an insult. Then realize it's your favorite thing about him, and hope it isn't any time soon.

"Revolting," you say as you attempt to pull off your most disgusted face and find that it's not that difficult, given the situation, "I'm sorry, Jimin-ah. I just couldn't resist Seokjin's sexy goblin bod."

"Slander!" Seokjin goes on a tangent and says something about how Helen of Troy doesn't have shit on me, and Jimin is giggling so hard he nearly catapults off his chair and you are. Not endeared. No. Definitely not endeared for your husband.

You never do find out why Seokjin spontaneously visits again. But you sit there and watch as he fills the silence before the silence even begins, see how he tries to make you and Jimin talk and you think you know why.

You're suddenly so immensely grateful for your friends that your heart swells and turns to mush and you feel so much less alone than when you'd first gotten married.

Then Seokjin bails when it's time to do the dishes and you take it all back.

You talk to Jimin again when you're supposed to be sleeping and he's writing a letter in the dark. A candle you think smells like vanilla floats just above him, dripping wax onto the floor but it's okay. They wouldn't burn anything, you trust them.

"Do you like it here?" You ask before he jumps in his seat, and you try not to laugh.

You watch, cheek pressed to the duvet, as Jimin stands and delicately places the envelope on the windowsill, as if he's writing a love letter to the moon.

You think he won't reply. He does.

"Yeah." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. Moonlight trickles through the glass, makes his skin shine pale pink and honey gold. The candle floats down to eye level, and the thought that he's beautiful comes to you seconds before he blows the fire out. "I think I do."

The last part is whispered, makes you wonder what he sounds like when he sings.

You dream of your wedding, that night.

The priest officiating you is talking, saying something in a low voice, and you think the crowd is straining to hear. You don't know what he's saying until Jimin says a quiet "I do" that stuns you down to your bones.

You don't know what you were expecting. Maybe a part of you thought he'd say no and run down the aisle. Maybe a sudden slam of a door and a loud "I object!" with an accusatory finger pointed your direction.

(None of that happens of course, and when Jimin kisses you it's chaste and sweet, tastes a lot like chapstick. Like new beginnings.

Maybe faintly, even, of the sun.)

It takes another week for you to actually take Seokjin's advice and visit the town, and it only really happens after Jimin had been making halfhearted comments over breakfast that there's barely any sugar to mix into his tea.

So you visit the town. It's surreal, almost; the thought that this is someone's hometown, that this someone knows every back road and every street vendor and every stray cat, but you're just someone passing by.

You pass by screaming children and laughing couples and when a granny who sells silks by the riverside sees Jimin, she greets him like she'd known him her whole life. When she sees you, she smiles almost knowingly, and you don't know what to make of that.

It's oddly welcoming. You like this, these tightly knit communities where everyone is simultaneously a stranger yet knows everything about each other. Makes you wonder if you can be a part of it, too.

"Do you like walking?" Jimin asks you just when you realize that everything smells like baked bread. Just to make conversation, probably, but you appreciate it anyway.

"Not really," you grimace exaggeratedly, "I prefer driving. You get places faster."

"Obviously." He snorts. This conversation is getting nowhere fast.

"And if you're driving for a really long time, you can just pull over somewhere whenever you want and get, like, ice cream or something, and the world becomes a better place," you continue.

"But you just sit still for so long," he frowns.

"Ice cream, though."

It's only when he finally turns to look at you that you realize he's barely looked at you at all. "Ice cream doesn't help my ass." He deadpans.

Jimin sticks his tongue out. His tongue. Out! At you. How unkind.

"I want a divorce." You say, flabbergasted.

Jimin punches your shoulder lightly as you laugh, then says, "Too bad, you're stuck with me forever." His voice barely even wobbles.

"I'm glad." You smile. You're joking but you're not, want him to know you're serious. "I'm glad it's you I'm stuck with, then."

He looks away, but you think his ears are pink.

When you get home, it's to the moon peeking through the clouds, bags of bread in your and Jimin's hands. Banana bread, pumpkin bread, blueberry bread, pink and red breads that are apparently edible and magical and leave you feeling cloudy and floaty.

Jimin leaves a bowl of sugar water on the windowsill to surprise the butterflies in the morning, says they've been warming up to him. The hyacinths, too. Even the poppies have started flirting with him and everything.

It feels like everything is slotting into place, you think. Like you've been handed a new puzzle with a thousand pieces too many, and you know they all fit somewhere and you're in the process of figuring it out.

(Maybe you and Jimin are those pieces.)

It's quiet in breakfast. It's not an unwelcome quiet, not like in the beginning, when Jimin could barely look you in the eye. Now you talk about the weather and the appropriate amount of sugar to mix into coffee and the old man from the coffee shop in town that said his name so quickly Jimin didn't catch it and had to pretend he knew it for the rest of the conversation.

Now you know things beyond what's superficial. Now you know he loves strawberry tarts but doesn't like strawberries. Now you know he's Team Jacob. Now you know he had thick square glasses around his junior year of training that made him look so much like a nerd that you busted a lung and laughed for six straight minutes.

You think that's enough for you to approach him and say, "Wanna walk through the forest with me?"

Jimin looks surprised. Maybe not in a bad way. Maybe his smile just might be genuine when he replies with a resolute absolutely not.

Apparently the forest is cold and dark and scary, but Jimin goes with you anyway.

The woods are nice. When you strain your ears you think you can hear something call for you, and if you stand very still you can feel your heart beat in sync with something, something alive.

Okay, so maybe the woods are a bit cold and dark and scary, but you know better than to be afraid. If you are, it'll turn against you.

"Don't step on beetles, that's bad luck. That and you'll never get rid of them." You warn, watch as Jimin instantly jumps in place and stares at the ground warily.

"Okay, yeah, that makes me feel better," he says with a grimace, and you laugh.

There's no real reason for you to want to walk through the woods besides sudden curiosity, but Jimin indulges you. Lets you trail a hand down the bark of a tree and try to befriend the rabbits and pick some blueberries from the bushes.

There's a sharp gasp when you promptly shove one in your mouth.

"Y/n! That's-- unsanitary! You don't know where that's been!"

Blueberry juice trails down your chin. You don't even want to imagine what you look like, but for whatever reason you can't seem to bring yourself to care. Think of how it's just Jimin you're with. Maybe that means something. Maybe it means he's never made you feel unwanted for being yourself.

"S'fine, what's the worst that could happen?" You pick another one, halfheartedly clean it with your shirt, then throw it in the air with an attempt to catch it. It bounces off your nose, and Jimin laughs so hard he snorts twice through his nose.

When you walk back home, it's with a smile and a blue stain on your shirt and dirty shorts, and when you look over you think you catch Jimin smiling, too.

The first time you meet Taehyung, it's two months after the wedding.

He's a big friend of Jimin's, and apparently Taehyung likes to call himself Jimin's soulmate. Jimin just laughs and never corrects him and it makes you feel soft all over.

So Taehyung's visiting again today. When you walk through the door, placing your muddy sneakers by the shoe rack, Taehyung is already there, reading something on the couch. You think it's poetry.

You've only spoken to him a handful of times, maybe, but when he sees you he grins and casts an invisible fishing rod and pretends to reel you in. You indulge him and pretend to be reeled. It's all very dramatic.

You're maybe too far to begin genuine conversation but Taehyung starts speaking anyway, "Y/n, hello! It's been so long!" It's been two days. You don't correct him.

"Hi, Taehyung." He deems you've been reeled close enough and nods to himself. His skin is tanned honey and gold, his cheeks and nose a bit red, like he's been in the sun a lot. If you didn't already know that he's a green witch from Jimin, you think you'd know by this alone.

"Hello, hello," The man's already standing up, patting your head like you hadn't just met him all of two days ago, "C'mon, I got some strawberries from the forest. I thought the forest would be scary but it looks like it warmed up to you and Jimin already so it let me in nicely."

In truth, it took various compass potions for you to not get lost, and then several days for you to have warmed up to the woods around your house, but it's fine. Jimin goes through it in his morning runs now. Sometimes the light shines through the trees just right to guide you through, and sometimes you get a bad feeling about a certain path, like something is trying to steer you away from what's waiting in the end of it.

But the woods are safe. A comfort.

"That's good! That's good. Especially since you'll probably be visiting a lot," you chuckle.

"Definitely! I'm sorry to say this, but where Jiminie goes, I follow. I'm the physical manifestation of his own inner demons."

"An interesting way to phrase it."

"Indeed." Taehyung hums, cutting up the strawberries neatly. He's swaying his hips to the silence. Sway, sway, sway.

Taehyung sets the strawberries aside and there's a sudden clatter of bowls and pans, the man picking apart your fridge as he hums something soft under his breath. The silence feels heavy in a pleasant way, like the walls are straining to hear his gentle singing.

"How long have you known him?" You ask curiously as he hands you a potato. You're not explicitly told what to do with it, but you start peeling it when he keeps looking at you expectantly. He hums, satisfied.

"Since diapers!" He grins, boyish and boxy, chops up the onions in messy bits and pieces. "There's no one that knows him better than me, his mom and maybe the government."

You laugh and Taehyung continues making his mysterious concoction.

Jimin walks in around an hour later to a mess in the kitchen, and he promptly screeches in impressive falsetto when he sees you and Taehyung, and Taehyung laughs for three solid minutes.

(The mysterious concoction, you learn, is soup, judging by the way Taehyung hands Jimin a bowl and promptly says, "Soup!"

Jimin looks at it for four solid seconds and says, "Well this is certainly something to wake up to."

"Me and Y/n made it just the way you taught me to!" Taehyung grins and takes a hold of your hand despite only having met you properly around three days ago.

"I just cut some potatoes," you frown. You're promptly ignored by Taehyung, but Jimin pats your head in gratitude. You're warm.

"I bet it's shit," Jimin says, but he's smiling so hard that you don't think he means it.

Taehyung smiles back. "I bet it's shit, too."

When Taehyung leaves, he ruffles your hair and slaps Jimin's butt even as Jimin laughs and shoos him off, and you decide that you're happy. Happy that Jimin's happy, too.)

You dream of your wedding night again, except this time, you dream beyond just the chapstick and the new beginnings. You dream again of his hand curving around your waist to pull you closer, the delicate way he says I do, a song made of only two words.

He tastes like the sun even the second time, and you know that's impossible, know the sun isn't quite a tangible thing, that it doesn't have a taste or even a scent at all-- but he does. He just does.

You wake up with your stomach lurching down down down until it's a melted puddle by your feet, a new ache of longing so deep it melts you down to your bones.

The clock blinks 4:37 am. It's early enough for Jimin to not have left the bed for his morning run yet, and when you turn, his face is so close you can see each individual eyelash and trace every blemish until it forms a constellation.

You peel yourself off of bed and head for the gardens, pass by the dream catcher hanging by the door and give it a little dangle. Pass by the birdhouse draped over the ledge of a tree and wonder if it was always painted pink.

You head for the middle of the greenhouse, see remnants of Jimin in every flower and every tree and every potted lemon lime dracaena draped over the ceiling. You lie down, sprawled over the dirt, the nearby snowdrops leaning over as if to comfort, and you think--

You don't know much. You don't know much, but you know this: people may reject you, but if you lie on the floor for long enough, the moss and the fungi will accept you as one of their own.

(You sit there for so long that when you wake it's to the morning sun and wind chimes and a worried Jimin ushering you up, up, all worried and sullen. But there's this: the birds are singing in their pink birdhouses and there's a natural breeze as the man laces your fingers together and drags you home, as if the world is telling you to breathe.

It almost smells like spring.)

When you walk to the greenhouse the next day, a tray of tea and orange slices in both your hands, Jimin's planting strawberries by a corner, gently patting at the humid soil.

His hair is a little loose and windblown, and there are daisies and twigs in the knots. There are bruises and scratches all over his legs, as if he'd been on wild adventures and has no concept of his own physicality.

Jimin grins when he sees you, openly and unabashedly, slipping off his gloves as he stands with grass stains on his clothes, and you ache down to your bones. You say he looks like a child gremlin, and he laughs.

You're a witch, practically made of magic, but you think there's a certain magic in the mundane, too. Vibrant greenery and sunlight and orange slices and honeyed tea.

"Should we visit the town again?" Jimin says through a mouthful of his slice, his lips tinted orange, almost.

"Yeah," you mutter softly, "that would be nice."

So you promise to visit the town again, maybe grab some fresh linen sheets and warm lattes and walk through the river bank, dip your toes in the water.

It's raining outside, you notice. Just a bit, just a drizzle, more witch weather than anything. Where everything is a little foggy and makes you feel a little floaty, like you're longing for something that doesn't exist.

The thought that you need some rainwater crosses your mind, maybe for a non visibility spell of some sort.

Jimin finds you like that, head tipped to the sky, mason jar raised in the air like an offering of some sort, steadily filling with rainwater. He says something but you don't hear it, like your head is dipped halfway underwater.

You feel a warmth on your wrist, look up to see Jimin already looking down at you, both of you soaked to the bone. "You're an idiot, you know that?" You think he's supposed to sound angry but he looks too happy. Too fond.

Jimin leads you back inside and struggles with the door for a bit, laughs when the water drips from his shoes onto the wooden floor. The boy pulls you deeper into the house. You don't remember when he'd taken your hand.

"Stay here, I'll go get us a towel." Then he leaves you to stand in the middle of the living room floor. He seems to notice this, because it doesn't take him three steps for him to turn back around to stand there with you.

"Um." You say just to have something to say. "This is awkward." It's not. It's actually very nice, wet socks and all. Maybe it's the way he's staring at you, cheeks crinkled at the edges. Makes you feel very seen. Makes you wonder when he'd started staring at you like this.

"Yeah." He agrees mindlessly, a hand trailing from your shoulder down to your wrist. He hesitates on taking your hand. Takes it anyway, laces your fingers. You feel warm down to your bones, even when he quickly lets go. "I'll, uh-- I'll go, now."

Then when he comes back with maybe three towels too many, you're sticking a post-it note to your mason jar and writing rainwater in sharpie for you to not mix it with, say, neroli bath water. Moon water. A love potion.

A towel is dumped over your head, and when you turn Jimin's already ruffling his own towel through his hair. It's disheveled when he stops, fluffed up like a baby chick. He's wearing sweatpants now, with a band shirt that looks to be three sizes too big on him.

"Can I dry your hair?" Jimin says then sounds surprised that he's said it, as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

So Jimin dries your hair after you change into clothes you hadn't just walked into the rain with, and he continues even as you pour your rainwater into the cauldron, drizzle some crushed acorns inside. Your husband watches you work, hands you the jars you point at whenever you ask.

"What's this?" Jimin asks as he hands you the mason jar on the top shelf. It only has PN+ML written in sharpie which, in retrospect, can actually be confusing for whoever didn't write it.

"It's just a mixture of pine needles and maple leaves. Actually, maybe some adder's fork will be better.." You trail off, then shrug and add some maple leaves anyway. You stir counter-clockwise and Jimin just blinks when bubbles start popping sluggishly in the cauldron.

"I'm glad I'm not a kitchen witch." Jimin says, grimaces at a jar that says wool of bat. Which are really just holly leaves, but you're not about to tell him that.

Jimin's humming softly behind you as he brushes a hand over a flower on the table centerpiece, then starts picking at a sticker of one of the oranges.

You spend the drawn-out afternoon doing nothing and everything. Jimin finds a box of crayons in a drawer somewhere and draws frogs on post-it notes that he sticks to the fridge, along with reminders to buy more bread. He puts on a movie with the weirdest plot he can find that ends up not being too bad.

You fall asleep with your head pressed to Jimin's chest, the man running a hand through your hair, murmuring something soft that you don't catch. You drift off to the thought that this is probably the closest you've ever been.

You pat at the bedsheets out of habit. It's empty but still warm, still messy, and it's too dark outside for Jimin to have left already.

When you peel yourself out of bed, Jimin's sitting on the couch knitting a scarf. He keeps saying it's for Taehyung even though the scarf is actually close to being seven feet long and there's no way anyone will be able to wear it. It's a tangle of greens and pinks, two of Taehyung's favorite colors that aren't complementary at all but you think he'd make it work.

The look in Jimin's eyes and the window outside is enough to tell you it's roughly 3AM. It's 3AM and Jimin is knitting a seven feet long ugly scarf and there's an empty box of ramen on the coffee table.

A notebook is open on his lap with stick figures and plant doodles on the corners. There's a coffee ring stain on the paper but he doesn't look too upset about it, looks to be drawing a sun out of it.

He looks up at you, smiles something a bit too soft. Too early for that. "Good morning."

A hum. "Good morning?" You say with a bit of an edge. You both stare at each other in a moment of silent understanding.

You stand there for a moment too long until he pats the spot next to him on the couch. You take that as invitation enough and plop yourself down next to him.

You're not close to each other enough for your legs to touch, but when he slumps his shoulder brushes over yours. "What're you doing?" You ask, because you're already here and it's 3AM and you think you can afford to be straightforward.

Jimin looks up at you. Looks back down at his knitted monstrosity. "My best."

You snort. "You okay?"

Your husband grimaces and looks like he wants to say something and is debating on whether he should say it or not. Ends up saying-- "No."

"Did something happen?" You're swinging your legs so far they touch the edge of the couch. You probably look like a child but when Jimin looks down he smiles something that looks a little less like he's tipping over an edge.

"Rough day, rough week. Rough-- couple of weeks." He shrugs, "It's just a thing on my mind. S'dumb."

"I'm sure it's not dumb," you lay a hand on his knee and it's supposed to be comforting but you think you feel goosebumps on his skin. You pull back quick and he doesn't stop you. "Your feelings aren't dumb."

He doesn't say anything for a bit. He's frowning and you think it's a bit unfair to think of how cute he looks while doing it.

You swallow. "Can I stay?"

"Yes," he says too quickly, backtracks with pink cheeks, "I mean-- yes, please. I don't like being alone when I'm sad."

"You're sad?" You didn't need to ask but you do anyway.

"M'not, but I am. Is that weird? It sounds weird. I'm not making sense right now."

"That's fine, you're fine." You rifle through everything you know about Jimin and try to decide whether you should push or not. Decide that maybe it's okay. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Maybe one day." Jimin smiles and you don't know what he means by that but you smile back anyway.

Silence again. Jimin reaches for his abandoned noodles, takes a halfhearted bite and grimaces, then promptly sets it back down. You snort.

"Do you wanna go back to sleep?" You murmur. You think you can feel the exhaustion become something a little less tiring and a little more soft.

"I don't think I'll be able to."

"I can hold your hand." You say but it feels like you've stepped on maybe ten red lines too many, so you backtrack and say, "Or something. If you want. Forget it."

You feel your heart contort into something ugly, but when you look up at him through your lashes, he's smiling. Says, "I accept, then. Cuddles for companionship."

"No four syllable words until the sun's up." You say, and he giggles.

Jimin is singing when you drag him back to bed, his voice fading softly into sleep. There are weird breaks in his voice and you can't place the tune nor can you make sense of what he's saying, but he keeps going with a yawn and a Busan drawl.

(Jimin's voice is pretty and his sleepy blinks are pretty and the boy is just pretty, pretty, pretty.)

Everything feels sleepy and tender and it's probably too early to have revelations, but you feel as it happens anyway. It feels less like something squeezing at your heart and more like it's cradling it.

Is it really a revelation? It feels softer. Less like something new and more like something old.

Jimin's song trails into nothing. You peer up at Jimin just as his eyes twitch with dreams, and it's-- a bad angle.

He's beautiful.

"I think I love you." You whisper.

You sleep.

When you wake, there's a hand fisted in your shirt and Jimin's muttering something in his sleep that you don't catch. The sheets aren't empty, and there's a streak of gold through the blinds and onto his cheek. You wonder what it would feel like to kiss Jimin a second time. You wonder if he smiles into his kisses.

"Okay, tell me what's happening." Seokjin says, lightly patting your head where it's pressed to his shoulder. You sigh for the umpteenth time today.

The glass vials are clinking around in your bag, and you'd wanted to give them to Jimin to test on the camellias, but-- you can't do that anymore, not really.

You sigh again. "If you sigh one more time I'm calling my lawyer."

"You don't have a lawyer though?" You say, and it comes out as more of a question.

Seokjin pulls you closer so that he's smothering your face with his chest. "I said what I said."

You jam your fingers into his armpit until he screams and rolls away and you can breathe again.

"Seriously, though," Seokjin says as he makes himself comfortable on the couch. His head's on the armrest and he swings his legs so they're resting over your lap. You threaten to push them away and he ignores you. "Do I need to give you the Self Love Speech?"

"No." You deadpan. Seokjin gives you a second, as if to reconsider, and sighs when you don't.

"You never visit me though, and you look mopey."

"I do not." You say but you probably kind of do. You try to make yourself look more relaxed but it's too late.

"Don't give me sass, I'm serious here!" He says but his hands are gentle when he links your fingers together. Makes you feel very seen. "Did something happen with Jimin?"

Nothing new, you think but don't say. Nothing new, because it doesn't feel new, feels more like something that's left forgotten until it's time to be remembered. You think of the times when Jimin adjusts your shirt collar for you, when he's mumbling in the morning all slurred and heavy with dialect because he's tired, when he's back from the gardens all dirty and sweaty but grinning as he says Y/n look what I found, Y/n look what I did, Y/n come see, come look, Y/n, Y/n, Y/n.

Little moments that make you think shit, I love him, and the universe tries to compensate for the acknowledgement, for the slip, spins a half-beat faster. You tuck those moments away, hidden in your veins and in the empty spaces of your heart.

“S’nothing.” You say, then grab Seokjin’s hand and place it on your head, “Now pat my head until the nothing goes away.”

So Seokjin pats your head and doesn’t pry and if you let how sad you feel slip and show on your expression he doesn’t comment on it, and you’re grateful.

You're halfway through a love potion when Jimin walks inside, swinging a bag around to catch your attention. You nearly drop the dragon feather you'd been trying to dissolve when the man whoops loudly in your ear.

"I brought you food! The halmeoni from the store gave me a discount," he giggles as he sets the bag onto the kitchen island, turns towards you expectantly.

You sigh, pressing a hand to your heart, "Jimin-ah, marry me," you implore dramatically, already making grabby hands in his direction.

He snorts, "We're literally already married," he hums, lets himself be pulled towards you with a laugh, then says, "What're you making?"

You're about to explain, but he's already leaning towards your bottled concoction and taking a whiff. You almost laugh, but then he's scrunching his nose and sniffing again and then says, incredibly--

"Are you brewing your own perfume?"

And really, it's-- not that far fetched of a theory. The bottles scattered around your cauldron look a bit like perfume bottles, maybe. Except, except--

Except you're making a love potion. It's not an actual love potion, not the love potion one would imagine when the term came up, because love can't really be manipulated, only artificially. But every witch, kitchen witch or not, knows that a love potion just serves to make you feel a bit fuzzy, a bit lighter on your feet.

And that it smells like the one you love the most.

"Huh?" is all you manage to say.

"Yeah. Like-- burning embers and forest air and an underlying tone of like, rosemary or something."

When you don't say anything, only staring at him wide eyed with a muttered holy shit, he chuckles almost nervously, "You'd think I told you that you smell bad or something, what is it?"

You don't say anything for a few more moments, and when you look down at your potion, it's clear and transparent and almost looks like water, if not for the way it were bubbling sluggishly. When you breathe in, it smells like freshly picked daisies and sun warmed oranges and something boyish, something that just might be Jimin.

"Yeah," you breathe, "Perfume. That's, uh, exactly what I'm doing."

"No reason to be embarrassed, it's kinda endearing." He claps you on the back encouragingly, and his hand doesn't linger. It feels like it might linger. It hovers a bit, as if he caught himself before it could linger.

"Uh. Yeah." You say, then mutter another holy shit, while you're at it.

You kind of wish you were a weather witch to summon a lightning bolt to strike you where you're standing.

He’s about to walk away and you grab his hand. He turns.

Your tongue feels tied in a knot, just like your stomach. For something that seems so simple and straight-forward, it still feels like if you take one wrong step everything will be ruined.

You're in the process of counting his eyelashes when he says, "Yes?"

You breathe breathe breathe and try to say something but nothing comes out. Jimin waits, patient, always so patient. He hums and tap, tap, taps your palm, a gentle waltz of one, two, three. Your heartbeat settles.

"I love it when you sing." You sigh. Jimin laughs and keeps humming, his head settling over your shoulder. "I love it when you put your head on my shoulder."

Jimin laughs again. "What's this about?"

You ignore him. "I love it when you leave your shit all over the bathroom counter, and when you take so long to get ready you make us both late for things."

"This got significantly less flattering."

"I love it when--" Your head swims. "When I wake up to the breakfast you made. And when you're happy. And your stupid taste in romcoms."

You feel more than see the way his lips wobble like he's holding back a cry.

A part of you wants to stop this, say something to break the tension, but the other part, the bigger part, wants to keep telling Jimin pretty things while sitting in this pretty dream. Tell him how pretty he is. Tell him how much you ache ache ache with even the smallest touch.

"Y/n?" Jimin says, then, tentatively, when no more words seem forthcoming from you.

Everything is falling. You want to curl over Jimin's chest and listen to the thrum of his heart and counsel your own that way, there, like that, beat like that.

When you look at Jimin, he's frowning and you feel like you should lie. Any lie would be good right now, any lie would work, maybe help you escape towards the greenhouse. Then you wonder miserably what it would be like to be honest, for once.

"I love you." It's not you that says it. It's him. It's Jimin.

The world stops.

You shudder, let out a shaky breath, feel the way the walls expand and contract like you're trying to make sense of things.

"A horrible decision, really." You settle on saying, your hands settling over Jimin's shoulders shaking softly with laughter, then say, "Are you sure?"

You blink blink blink, need a second to put yourself back inside the lines. Feel the exact moment he presses a kiss to your shoulder softly, so softly you ache all over. You let out a shaky breath and feel him shiver.

"I've never been so sure of something," Jimin says-- breathless, almost-- pulling back to cup your jaw and lean even closer. He breathes against your lips and he's pretty, so pretty, so pretty you can barely breathe.

You don't say anything because you don't trust your voice and the world is spinning all funny and off-kilter.

"I want," Jimin starts, swallows, shivers. He doesn't say what he wants. Just kisses your jaw like it would be able to divine an answer, like it's answer enough. Your whole body throbs with fondness.

"Jimin-ah," you say but trail off, don't know where to go from there, either.

Jimin's thumb presses to the corner of your mouth, traces your bottom lip line. The pad of his thumb drags back higher, then tugs your lip down, and you can't stop the quiet noise you make. He stops. His eyes flick to yours.

The Earth, you think, is spinning wrong. Trying to compensate for what you've done. The tides will crash at odd times, the moon with be wrong. You're ruining the entire world with your hands.

Jimin's fingers dance on your cheeks.

You've already crossed so many lines you drew for yourself that it doesn't matter anymore. You reach out, cup the back of his head and tug, and then you're kissing.

Everything sizzles against your skin. You want to tell him that, that you feel like you're floating, that he's the only thing holding you down, the gentle press of his lips and his hands skimming over your arms, your neck, the dip in your back.

Jimin sighs against your lips and you feel it down to your bones. You don't know what to do or where to touch, feel yourself hover until Jimin takes your hands and guides them towards him. Your skin feels so hot you think it could catch fire.

"W-wait," You mumble and Jimin pulls back at that, watches you struggle to breathe, his hands hovering like he wants to touch but is holding himself back. "Shouldn't-- shouldn't we take it slow?"

And Jimin laughs, breathy and low. "We've been married for almost six months, but okay." He leans forward, kisses you right under the eye, a lingering press. It's so unexpected and intimate that you feel yourself gasp, is sure the spot is seared, that everyone will look at it and know.

When you open your eyes Jimin is there watching, waiting, looking so unbelievably fond, and says, "There you are, my pretty Y/n." He strokes the under of your eyes so so tenderly.

"I love you," you say this time, feel it tumble out without much hassle, feel the world crumble and disappear, sink like Atlantis.

And Jimin smiles so wonderfully wide and his shoulders sag with something like relief, and it's unbelievable, that he thought you wouldn't want this, that you wouldn't love him.

You tug at his shirt and when he kisses you again you're both grinning, all teeth and something sweet. It feels unhurried and earnest like he'd been wanting to do it forever. You get lost in it, in the sweetness, in Jimin whispering against your lips, letting you how good you are, how pretty you are, how very very much he loves you.

"What're you smiling about?" You ask, your hands linked together and swinging gently.

It's later. Night, even. The garden feels different at night, feels more like a fairy tale, something tender and familiar.

"I don't know," he says, shrugs, "You're just. Really great."

He tips his head up to the sky, says it to the stars, but you feel it anyway-- feel when your heart squeezes in your chest, turns to mush, human fondue.

"You're pretty cool, too." You say, laugh when he pushes you playfully, laugh even more when he pulls you back.

Then he's pulling you in closer and tilting your head just so, trailing a hand down the dip in your back. You think about small candles and nameless birds, about writing love letters to the moon. Think about how it's Jimin you're kissing. Kiss him harder.

Jimin melting, all warm and pliant. Jimin's hand sliding up the back of your sleep shirt, fingertips skimming the wings of your shoulder blades. It all feels inevitable, almost, but it also feels like a choice.

When you pull away you hear a gentle buzz of cicadas, a small connection back to the real world, and you breathe breathe breathe.

It all smells like spring.